**YEAR 2079 AFTER THE LONG NIGHT**
**2 YEARS AFTER CHAPTER 8**
**TWO YEARS LATER**
Two years have passed since Aegon claimed Valerio.
Two years of wind in the face, of height and vertigo, of learning to be one with a beast that could kill you with a careless moment but instead takes you flying.
The children are no longer the same.
AEGON is 12 years old.
The boy who once hugged a cold egg by the fireplace is now a consummate rider. His silver hair, long and silky, reaches his shoulders. When he flies, the wind whips it like a banner. His violet eyes, those his grandmother would have recognized instantly, look at the world with infinite curiosity and a spark of mischief that promises trouble.
Because Aegon, unlike his father or grandfather, has a special gift for getting into trouble. Not out of malice. Out of curiosity. Out of wanting to know what lies beyond.
ORYS is also 12 years old.
His dark hair, ever thicker, contrasts with his brother's like night contrasts with day. His gaze, serious and loyal, makes him seem older than he is. He no longer trembles when dragons pass close. He no longer looks at the ground when the beasts fly overhead.
But heights... heights are another story.
Still, he climbs. Always climbs. Because Aegon extends his hand, and he takes it.
VISENYA and RHAENYS are 10 years old.
The first, fierce and determined, with those violet eyes that seem to challenge the entire world. When she walks, she does so as if she owns everything she steps on. When she speaks, she expects to be heard. And she is heard.
The second, sweet and observant, with a smile that disarms even the toughest. But do not be fooled by that sweetness. Rhaenys sees things others do not see. Listens to what is not said. Knows what others ignore.
Together, they complement their brothers as only sisters can.
Their dragon saddles are already custom-made.
Black leather seats, cured by the island's finest craftsmen. Valyrian steel buckles, forged with metals that still remember ancient fire. Designed so they never fall, so they fit their bodies like a second skin.
And they fly.
They fly every day.
Sometimes together, forming a squadron that the islanders watch with pride. Sometimes separately, each exploring their own corner of the sky.
But they always fly.
Because flying is what Targaryens do.
**GRANDFATHER'S TRAINING**
Each morning, when the sun barely peeks over the sea, AEROM gathers them in the courtyard.
Not the training yard, where the sword master teaches them to wield the blade. Not the archery range, where they learn to use the bow. Another courtyard. Smaller. More intimate. With a fountain in the center and stone benches around it.
Here, Aerom does not train their bodies.
Others do that.
He trains their minds.
—If you only know how to fight —he says, pacing before them with his gloved hands behind his back —, you will be soldiers.
The children listen. They have learned to listen. When Grandfather speaks, even the birds fall silent.
—If you only know how to fly, you will be messengers. Useful, yes. But replaceable.
Visenya frowns. She does not like the idea of being replaceable.
—But if you know languages, history, and strategy... —Aerom stops and looks at them one by one —. You will be kings.
The word resonates in the courtyard.
Kings.
It is not a title used on Dragonstone. Here there are no kings. There are families. Alliances. Survival.
But Aerom speaks of something else. Of a distant future. Of a world they do not yet know.
He teaches them High Valyrian.
The language of their ancestors. The one spoken by those who built the greatest empire the world has ever known. Words that sound like fire, that curl on the tongue like dragons in the air.
—When you ride your dragons —he says —, you can give commands in the common tongue. Anyone will understand them. But if you want your beasts to respond as more than beasts... speak to them in Valyrian. It is the language of the bond. The language of blood.
He teaches them history.
Of the Seven Kingdoms, across the sea. Of Essos, the continent where they live. Of the lands beyond, where maps become blurry and legends begin.
—Knowledge is power —he repeats each day —. The dragon burns, but the word persuades. And sometimes, persuading is more powerful than burning.
The children learn quickly.
They are Targaryens. It runs in their blood.
**ORYS AND THE VERTIGO**
Orys is no longer afraid of dragons.
He has overcome that. Watching his brother ride Valerio, watching his sisters fly on their small dragons, has dissolved that ancient fear like the sun dissolves fog.
But heights...
Heights are another story.
It is not the dragon that scares him. It is the void. It is looking down and seeing everything so small, so distant, so alien. It is thinking about falling, about the wind whipping his face, about the ground approaching...
—Come on —Aegon says one morning, extending his hand —. Climb up.
Orys hesitates.
Valerio is there, immense, asleep in the sun. Seventy meters of black scales. His back is like a mountain. But a mountain that flies.
—What if I get dizzy? —Orys asks, with a half-smile trying to hide his fear.
—I'll hold you.
Aegon is not joking. He does not laugh. He looks at him with those violet eyes that always tell the truth.
Orys takes his hand and climbs.
The climb is long. The scales offer grip, but you have to be careful. A slip and...
He does not think about that.
When they reach the top, Aegon sits in front, Orys behind, hugging his waist.
Valerio takes off.
The world becomes small.
Houses, ants. Trees, green dots. The sea, a blue sheet stretching to infinity.
Orys closes his eyes at first.
He feels the wind, the movement, the warmth of the dragon beneath him.
Then he opens them.
—See? —Aegon says, without turning —. Nothing happens.
Orys looks.
The sun shines. The clouds are close, so close he could touch them. The entire island spreads beneath them, a tiny toy.
—It's... —he searches for the word —. It's beautiful.
—Yes. And it's ours.
Orys smiles.
For the first time, he smiles in the air.
**THE FAMILIES GROW**
In the fortress of the CELTIGARS and VELARYONS, there is a celebration.
Not just any celebration. A grand one, with music, with food, with wine flowing like water. Banners hang from the towers. Children race through the courtyards.
Five babies in each house.
Nine, ten little beings arriving in the world with the silver hair and pale eyes of their elders. New members of the three Valyrian families. New blood joining that of the Targaryens.
Dareo and Elera attend the celebrations with the four children.
They tour the fortresses, greet old friends, admire the newborns.
—Look —Elera says, pointing at the little ones —. Our family grows. Dragonstone grows.
And it is true.
DRAGONSTONE and its islands now have 10,000 INHABITANTS.
It is not a kingdom. They have no king. No crown. It is a small city, yes, compared to the great cities of Essos.
But prosperous.
And rich.
Ships arrive from everywhere. From Pentos, from Braavos, from Myr, from Lys, from Volantis. Merchants of all races, of all tongues, competing to do business with the three families.
Gold flows in torrents.
The storehouses fill. The coffers, too.
—I dream that this will be even bigger —Dareo says, looking at the horizon.
Elera, beside him, looks at the children.
Visenya argues with a young Celtigar. Rhaenys chats animatedly with a Velaryon. Aegon and Orys, together as always, observe everything with that mix of curiosity and distance that characterizes them.
—I dream that they will be happy —Elera replies.
Dareo embraces her.
—Does one thing preclude the other?
She smiles.
—No. But sometimes the big crushes the small. I don't want that to happen.
Dareo nods.
He understands.
**THE IDEA**
That night, when the celebration ends and the adults rest, the four siblings gather in Aegon's room.
The almost-full moon streams through the window. Candles flicker. Shadows dance.
—I'm bored —Visenya says, sprawled on the bed.
—You always say that —Rhaenys replies, sitting on the floor.
—Because it's always true.
Orys smiles. That shy but sincere smile of his.
—What if we go somewhere?
—Where? —Aegon asks, interested.
—I don't know. Braavos.
The word hangs in the air.
Braavos.
The city of canals. The city of titans. The city where bankers pull the world's strings and assassins lurk in the shadows.
—They say it's the most incredible city in the world —Orys continues —. Canals instead of streets. Boats instead of carriages. Markets where you can buy anything.
—Anything? —Visenya asks, sitting up.
—That's what they say.
The four look at each other.
And smile.
That smile that precedes mischief.
That smile that parents know too well.
—Without permission? —Rhaenys asks, with a hint of doubt.
Silence.
Then Aegon speaks:
—Why ask permission when we can fly?
The decision is made.
**TO BRAAVOS**
The next morning, when the sun barely peeks over the horizon, they take off.
Visenya and Rhaenys ride Vhagar and Meraxes, their small dragons with green and blue scales. They are not yet large, but they are fast. Agile. Perfect for an adventure.
Aegon and Orys ride Valerio.
The great dragon, the largest, the one who belonged to their grandmother, carries them with the gentleness of one who has carried riders for decades.
The journey is long.
The sea stretches beneath them, infinite, blue, dotted with tiny islands. Seagulls accompany them for a while, then tire and return. Ships, down below, seem like floating toys.
But dragons are fast.
When they arrive, the city spreads before them like a dream of stone and water.
Braavos.
Serpentine canals crisscross the city in all directions. Stone bridges span them at every turn. Colorful houses crowd against each other, their facades reflecting in the water. Boats of all sizes navigate the canals, transporting goods, people, dreams.
And in the background, dominating everything, the TITAN.
The colossal statue, legs spread over the harbor entrance, with its eyes that glow at night and its sword ever ready.
—It's... enormous —Rhaenys whispers.
—And we're going to explore it —Aegon says.
They land on the outskirts, on a tree-covered hill where no one sees them. They leave the dragons resting — Valerio curls up like a giant cat, the small dragons huddle against him — and enter the city on foot.
**THE SCAMMER SORCERER**
The city envelops them like a torrent.
People from everywhere. Smells from every kitchen. Sounds from every tongue. The four siblings walk close together, marveling, not knowing where to look first.
In a square, surrounded by stalls and booths, a man in a purple robe approaches them.
—Young traveling dragons! —he exclaims, arms open wide —. My lords! Would you like a souvenir of Braavos? I have magical amulets, authentic dragon powders...
Visenya looks at him distrustfully.
Her violet eyes, always attentive, scan the man from head to toe. The robe too new. The smile too fake. The hands too restless.
—Dragon powders? —she asks, in a tone that is not innocent.
—Yes, girl! —the man approaches, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret —. With this, your dragons will grow twice as fast. It's pure magic, the kind the ancient Valyrians used.
Visenya takes the jar he offers.
She smells it.
Holds it up to the light.
Smiles.
—It's sand —she says calmly —. Sand with glitter.
The man steps back.
—How dare you?! —he protests, feigning indignation —. That's authentic magic! I brought it myself from...
Visenya whistles.
A sharp, piercing whistle that cuts through the square's din like a knife.
From the sky, Vhagar responds.
The small green dragon dives, wings pressed to her body, yellow eyes gleaming. She lands beside Visenya and ROARS.
It's not a loud roar. Not yet. But for a scammer in a crowded square, it's enough.
The man pales.
His eyes bulge.
—DRAGON! —he shouts.
And he runs.
He tramples a fish vendor. Knocks over a fruit stall. Disappears into the crowd as if the devil were chasing him.
The four siblings laugh until they cry.
Clutching each other, doubled over with laughter, while people look at them with curiosity and fear.
—Visenya! —Aegon manages to say between laughs —. You're terrible!
—I know —she replies, with a proud smile —. And I love it.
**THE BANDITS**
On the way back, as the sun begins to decline, they fly over a road.
Below, they see movement. Shouts. Flashes of steel.
A merchant caravan is being attacked by bandits.
Men on horseback, with swords and torches, surround the wagons. The merchants try to defend themselves, but they are outnumbered. They are losing.
—What do we do? —Rhaenys asks, from Meraxes.
Aegon hesitates.
His father has told him a thousand times: don't get into trouble. Don't seek fights. Don't...
Then he looks at the merchants. Sees a woman protecting a child. Sees an old man fall from a horse.
And smiles.
—We go down.
The dragons descend.
Valerio first, with his immense bulk falling from the sky like a mountain deciding to become a threat. Vhagar and Meraxes behind, small but fast.
The bandits have never seen anything like it.
—WHAT IS THAT? —one shouts.
—DRAGONS!
They try to flee. Run to their horses, but the horses, panicked, rear up, throw their riders, bolt.
Vhagar and Meraxes are faster.
The small dragons catch the running bandits. They don't kill them. They KNOCK THEM DOWN. Throw them to the ground with their claws, pin them with their weight.
And then, Valerio descends.
The great dragon opens his jaws.
Fire.
Not just any fire. Black fire, the fire of the ancients, the kind that melts stone.
The bandits still trying to flee are caught. Their screams are short.
Those on the ground, trapped by the small dragons, watch in horror as their comrades turn to ash.
Valerio looks at them.
Opens his mouth again.
—No —Aegon says —. These have learned their lesson.
Valerio closes his mouth.
The bandits weep.
The merchants of the caravan watch, horrified and grateful at the same time. One of them, an older man with a grey beard, approaches trembling.
—Thank you, young lords! —he says, bowing —. The dragons saved us! How can we repay you?
Aegon smiles.
—Continue your journey. That is enough.
The children mount again and take off.
Behind them, the merchants watch them fly away, speechless.
**VALERIO, THE GUARDIAN**
While the children play and fight, VALERIO rests atop an ancient fortress on the outskirts of Braavos.
He does not fully sleep.
One eye is always half-open. Always vigilant.
The city's people see him from afar. His silhouette stands out against the sky, immense, impossible.
—Look —they say, pointing —. Valerio the Black Terror.
No one dares approach.
Fishermen avoid that part of the coast. Travelers take detours. Even birds fly away.
Even the FACELESS MEN, from their hidden temple in the canals, watch in silence.
One of them, a man with a nondescript face and empty gaze, speaks softly:
—That beast protects someone.
—Who? —another asks.
—Four children. We've seen them. They ride small dragons. They fly together.
—And why does that matter?
Silence.
Then the first speaks again:
—It matters. Because if someday we have to kill them... we'll have to go through him first.
No one answers.
But they all know it.
Going through Valerio is not an option.
Not for them. Not for anyone.
**THE DARK MAGE**
In a tower on the other side of Essos, far from Braavos, in a land where the sun barely warms and shadows are long, a man in a black robe studies a map.
He is a mage. One of the bad ones. The kind who use blood for their rituals and death for their spells.
He has seen the children.
Not with his eyes, but with others. With bowls of black water, with candles of human fat, with invocations to beings that should not be invoked.
—Those four —he murmurs —. Those four will be a danger. When they grow, when their dragons grow... no one will be able to stop them.
He prepares a ritual.
Poison, extracted from flowers that only grow in the graves of murdered kings. Black magic, the kind that demands blood and pain. An obsidian knife, carved with runes that glow in the dark.
—Tonight they will die.
But before he can complete his spell, before he can speak the final word, before the knife touches the blood he needs...
He hears a sound.
Caws.
Thousands.
The tower windows shatter.
The RAVENS pour in like a black tide. An avalanche of beaks, claws, and wings. They fill the room, cover the walls, the floor, the ceiling.
The mage screams.
He casts fire with his hands. The ravens burn, fall, but more come. Always more.
Their beaks tear his robe. Their claws scratch his skin. Their wings beat him, disorient him, knock him down.
When the last raven leaves, when silence returns to the tower, only gnawed bones remain and a puddle of black blood.
And on the floor, among the remains, a ring.
**THE FINGER**
In his tower, on Dragonstone, AEROM waits.
The ravens return.
They enter through the window, one after another, filling the room with their dark presence. They perch on the beams, on the furniture, on the floor.
One of them, the largest, the one with the brightest eyes, drops something at his feet.
A finger.
Still bloody. Still with a ring on it.
Aerom leans down. Picks it up.
His gloved hands hold the small object with a delicacy that contradicts its nature.
He looks at it. Examines the ring. Recognizes the symbols engraved on it. Knows what they mean.
—No one touches my grandchildren —he whispers.
He tosses the finger into the fireplace.
The flames consume it in an instant.
The ravens caw. Satisfied.
Aerom nods.
—Good work, my friend.
**THE RETURN**
The children return to Dragonstone.
The sun is setting as their dragons break through the clouds and the island appears beneath them. The fortress, the villages, the cliffs. Everything in order. Everything as always.
But at the port, two figures await them.
Dareo and Elera.
With furious faces.
The children land. Dismount. Walk toward their parents with slow, uncertain steps.
—WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU? —Dareo shouts.
His voice echoes in the port. Fishermen, merchants, onlookers, everyone stares.
Aegon swallows.
—We went to... Braavos.
—BRAAVOS? —Dareo seems about to explode —. Without permission? Without telling anyone? DO YOU KNOW HOW WORRIED WE WERE?
Elera, beside him, has her arms crossed and a stern look. But there is something in her eyes... a spark of curiosity?
Aegon explains.
The journey. The city. The scammer sorcerer. The bandits.
—They ate the bandits? —Dareo asks, incredulous.
Visenya nods proudly.
—Yes, Dad. Valerio did. We just caught the others.
Dareo looks at Elera.
She covers her mouth with her hands. She wants to maintain her stern expression, but it's clear she wants to laugh.
Dareo wants to laugh too.
But he can't. Not in front of them.
—Well —he says, taking a deep breath —. You're not that grounded.
—No? —Visenya asks, hopeful.
—No. But next time, you TELL US.
The children nod, relieved.
Then, Elera opens her arms.
—Come here.
The four throw themselves into her embrace. Dareo wraps his arms around them too.
A family. Whole. Alive. Together.
**THE TOWER**
Above, in his tower, Aerom watches everything.
The children laugh below. The parents pretend to be angry, but it's clear they're happy. The dragons rest on the cliffs, sated, satisfied.
—They're beginning to understand —Aerom murmurs to himself —. The dragon is not just power. It is family. It is protection. It is...
The ravens around him caw.
—I know —Aerom says —. The time approaches.
He looks north.
Toward where the mountains disappear into the eternal mist. Toward where something, once, called to him.
For an instant, his eyes shine blue.
An icy blue.
The same as always.
—Soon —he whispers —. Very soon.
The ravens wait.
They always wait.