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Chapter 32 Pyromancer
🕑 Added 2025-06-09 09:40:51 +0000 UTCAegon stood quietly near the far end of the Painted Table.
There was a stillness about him, calm on the surface, but a sharp eye would catch the flicker of tension behind his eyes, the careful control in every movement.
His grandmother had instructed him to dress properly and wait in the hall alongside his aunts and Lady Jocelyn.
She had entered earlier, accompanied by two of her most trusted retainers and a pair of older maesters, their faces drawn with confusion and quiet concern.
The summons had been abrupt, without explanation.
Just a single, firm command from the Queen: "Assemble in the Hall of the Painted Table. Now."
Now, low murmurs rippled through the chamber like the restless pull of the tide.
“She called us here at this hour and won’t say why?”
“Do you think someone’s died?”
“She looked pale when she returned from her chambers… pale and trembling.”
“No... not trembling. More like... lit from within.”
Aegon remained still. He heard every whisper but offered no response.
They didn’t know yet. None of them did. Only the Queen.
Queen Alysanne stepped forward at last, seeing that all were present.
She took a steady breath, and then smiled.
Not a soft smile, but one tinged with pride and quiet astonishment.
“The King will be arriving shortly,” she announced.
There were gasps. Eyes widened.
The King, at this hour?
Before more questions could rise, Queen Alysanne raised her hand, graceful, deliberate.
The room quieted at once, the last few murmurs dying on uncertain lips.
“Something has happened tonight,” she said, her voice steady, neither loud nor forceful, but carried with the quiet authority only she possessed.
“Something rare… something that may one day be remembered in the annals of our House.”
Her gaze swept across the gathered faces, curious, confused, half-drowsy.
“You were summoned not to be told,” she continued, “but to bear witness.”
A taut silence followed, heavy with questions no one dared ask aloud.
Even the crackling braziers seemed to soften, the firelight shifting across carved stone.
She looked to each of them, her gaze sweeping across the room, Maegelle’s puzzled expression, Lady Jocelyn’s narrowed eyes, Gael’s nervous curiosity.
“You will understand soon enough,” Alysanne said. “When the King arrives, all will be made clear.”
Whatever had happened tonight, it was no small thing. And the Queen’s composed but shining expression made one thing certain...
This was no crisis.
It was a revelation.
Then it came.
A sound like thunder rolling across the world.
A deep, guttural roar echoed from the cliffs above, rumbling down through the stone corridors of Dragonstone like the voice of an ancient god.
Vermithor.
Moments later, a sharper, shriller cry split the night air, higher, more piercing.
Vhagar.
The great stone corridors of Dragonstone echoed with the heavy footfalls of two Targaryens, one old, one in his prime, both cloaked in shadow and storm.
The chill of the sea air seeped in through the narrow, carved windows, and torches flickered along the walls, casting wavering light on the damp grey stone.
King Jaehaerys I walked with quiet urgency, his long cloak brushing the floor behind him, his face unreadable but tight with anticipation.
Beside him strode Prince Baelon, taller and broader, his silver-blond hair still mussed from sleep, jaw clenched in a scowl that hadn’t eased since Vhagar took flight.
Every servant they passed bowed deeply, stepping back against the wall.
The guards along the halls straightened, silent and watchful, offering deep nods of respect to both King and Prince.
Baelon’s boots thudded heavily against the stone as they descended a wide staircase.
His expression was caught somewhere between disbelief and restrained fury. In his hand he still clutched the folded letter, crumpled slightly at the corners.
His voice was low but tight as he spoke for the first time since leaving the dragonpit.
“I can’t believe it,” he muttered. “My son? Pyromancer?” He scoffed, but there was no humor in it. Only a growing knot of unease.
He shot a glance at his father. “Are you sure Mother wasn’t…”
“Your mother knows what she sees,” Jaehaerys said firmly, not looking at him. “She would not send word unless it was real.”
Baelon exhaled sharply through his nose. “Then we’ll see it. With our own eyes.”
“But if Aegon tricked her somehow, if he’s been playing at magic to get attention, I swear by the Seven… I’ll beat his little arse till dawn.”
Jaehaerys didn’t respond. His eyes were locked forward, the burden of what might await weighing heavier than any threat or lecture.
They turned the final corner, and at the end of the hallway stood the great black doors of the Hall of the Painted Table, carved with ancient dragons.
Two guards swung them open without a word.
The doors creaked open with a low groan, and in stepped King Jaehaerys and Prince Baelon.
The latter looked stiff with tension, jaw tight, while the king’s aged face was unreadable, cast in sharp lines by the flickering firelight.
Everyone in the room immediately bowed.
"Your Grace," came the united murmur.
Inside, the room was dimly lit by hanging braziers and wall sconces.
The massive, carved table that depicted Westeros in rich detail sat at the center of the chamber like a sleeping beast.
Around it stood Queen Alysanne, dressed regally despite the late hour, her face composed but shadowed with pride.
Beside her stood Lady Jocelyn, widow of Prince Aemon.
Maegelle, the Queen’s daughter, wore the modest greys of the Faith, hands folded loosely in front of her, her face serene but curious.
Gael, hovered near Maegelle. Fair and bright-eyed, she strained to look dignified, though wonder flickered behind her eyes.
Aegon stood near the far end of the table.
The king gave a brief nod, his gaze sweeping across the chamber before settling on the Queen.
She returned it with a curt, silent nod, an acknowledgment, not a reconciliation.
The air between them was cold, still holding the weight of unresolved argument.
“Mother,” Baelon said quietly as he passed her, dipping his head.
She gave him a gentle, silent look, then returned her attention to the center of the room.
Jaehaerys stepped forward, his expression hard to read, but his eyes soon fixed on the boy at the far end.
He studied Aegon intently for a long moment.
Then he spoke.
“Show me.”
His voice was low, steady, and cut through the chamber like a blade.
The sudden command made heads turn sharply. All eyes shifted to the boy at the far end of the hall.
And in that instant, they understood.
The “historic moment” the Queen had spoken of… was him.
Aegon Targaryen.
Aegon’s eyes flicked briefly toward his grandmother.
She gave him a faint, reassuring nod.
The boy straightened, took in a slow breath, and stepped forward.
“Yes, Your Grace,” he said, slowly and clearly.
He raised his right hand, palm turned upward.
At first, there was nothing. Then, with a subtle shimmer in the air above his hand, a flame burst into existence, suspended just above his skin.
Gasps echoed through the room.
The flame flickered and danced, but did not smoke or sputter.
A perfect sphere of fire hovered in stillness, warm and golden.
“I can shape them according to my wishes,” he said.
The flame twisted, elongating until it became a fiery blade.
Whispers rose around the room as the sword floated, glowing with orange heat.
Then it melted into a stream of sparks and twisted again, this time into the form of a tiny dragon, wings of fire beating slowly.
The dragon hovered above the table, gliding past the shocked faces of the queen's daughters, swooping once over Gael’s head, who let out a small squeak, before circling around and returning to Aegon.
He caught it gently in his palm, the fire compressing again into a perfect sphere.
And then, with a simple breath, he closed his fingers and extinguished it.
Silence.
Everyone stared at the boy, mouths slightly agape.
Even the seasoned maesters, who had seen births, deaths, and worse, looked stunned.
Maegelle’s lips moved in a silent prayer.
Gael looked like she’d just seen a miracle.
Baelon’s jaw had gone slack.
He blinked and glanced at his mother, who only raised a brow slightly as if to say I told you so.
Then the King laughed.
It started low, a rumble in his chest, but quickly grew louder, genuine, joyous, almost boyish in its delight.
He stepped forward and clapped Aegon on the shoulder, then turned to face the room.
“A pyromancer,” he said, still breathless from laughter. “By all the gods... a Valyrian pyromancer has been born into our family.”
He turned, arms partially raised, addressing everyone as if proclaiming from a throne.
“The magic of Old Valyria has returned to the world.”
“It flows in the blood of my grandson. You’ve all seen it with your own eyes!”
There were murmurs of awe, some uncertain, others reverent.
“This is no trick. No illusion. This…this is heritage,” the King declared.
“A gift buried by ash and time, now reborn in flame.”
Baelon stepped forward at last, still staring at his son. His voice was low, a little hoarse.
“Seven help me… You truly weren’t lying to her.”
Aegon tilted his head slightly, looking up at his father with a calm, almost amused expression.
“Why would you think I’d lie to her?” he asked softly.
He opened his mouth, then closed it, then let out a breathy chuckle and reached forward to clap his son on the shoulder, harder than necessary, perhaps to mask his own discomfort.
Aegon gave him a faint smile but said nothing more.
Queen Alysanne remained quiet, but a small, proud smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
The King sank slowly into a carved chair near the head of the table.
The others followed suit, rustling robes and shifting chairs echoing in the quiet chamber.
Aegon remained standing a moment longer, then took his seat beside his grandmother.
And then came the questions.
Jaehaerys leaned forward slightly, hands folded before him.
“How… When did this happen?” His voice was calm but charged with curiosity.
Around the room, every face turned toward Aegon, Lady Jocelyn’s eyes sharp, Maegelle’s dazed expression, and Gael practically leaning over the table in anticipation.
“I don’t know exactly when,” Aegon said slowly. “It started with dreams…dreams of fire, of blood… of magic.”
At the mention of dreams, King Jaehaerys and Prince Baelon exchanged a glance.
Baelon’s brow furrowed, skepticism plain on his face.
“Dreams?” he echoed, the word carrying a quiet disbelief, as if unsure whether to dismiss it or be concerned.
Jaehaerys said nothing, but his expression shifted, subtle, contemplative.
His eyes lingered on Aegon, weighing the boy’s words with the gravity of a man who had heard such things before.
Aegon nodded, steadying his voice with the answers he had already prepared. “Yes. But it was just yesterday that I started feeling... different. Like something inside me was waiting to be noticed. I didn’t think much of it at first.”
“But when I was flying Dreamfyre…” he paused briefly, letting the image settle in their minds, “...I felt it again. A pull, from within.”
His voice had a quiet conviction to it now. “So I landed on a hill and listened. And when I did… the fire answered. It was just there, waiting.”
“I tested it for hours before I returned and told Grandmother.”
All eyes turned to Queen Alysanne.
She gave a slight nod. “He came to me with talk of dreams. At first, I thought of them as nothing more than a child’s fantasy.”
A small, almost wistful smile touched her lips. “But it seems they were something far greater.” Her gaze lingered on Aegon, warm with pride and fierce, protective love.
Baelon cleared his throat. “Could you… show the flames again?”
The Queen and King turned their heads sharply toward him.
Baelon lifted a hand in a sheepish shrug. “I’m just curious if the flames are… hot enough. So he doesn’t burn himself, accidentally.”
He gave Aegon a sidelong look, half teasing.
Alysanne shot him a look only a mother could give, both amused and exasperated.
“A pyromancer burning himself down,” she scoffed.
Her eyes narrowed. “Enough demonstrations have been made.”
Aegon gave a small shrug, complying without argument.
One of the maesters, a lean, sharp-nosed man with a voice like dry parchment, cleared his throat.
“If Your Graces would allow,” he began cautiously, “I would recommend a full examination. Just to ensure there are no… adverse effects on the young prince’s health. Magic, after all, is unpredictable.”
