Tyrosh, 212 AC
The morning sun cast its golden heat across the violet-roofed sprawl of Tyrosh, glinting off the domes and banners of the Free City. Below the looming tower of the Golden Company's headquarters, the clang of steel echoed in the training yard where men drilled in perfect ranks. At the center of the yard, a boy with silver-gold hair and fierce purple eyes moved with a longsword in his hands, the morning light catching on his sweat-slicked tunic as he wove through the forms.
Haegon Blackfyre.
He was a boy yet, just into his early teens, but already tall and lithe, his movements echoing the ghosts of his father. The sellswords sparred and barked orders, but all eyes strayed to him. There was something in his carriage, something familiar.
High above, Aegor Rivers—Bittersteel—watched with his arms crossed, clad in dark leathers. His black hair, streaked with silver at the temples, was tied back tightly, and his purple eyes studied the boy below with the cold scrutiny of a seasoned warrior and commander.
When the bout ended, Haegon stripped off his helm and looked up, sweat running down his face. "Was that good enough?"
Bittersteel descended the stairs slowly, the sounds of the yard parting around him. "Better," he said, offering the boy a skin of water. "But your hips are still too high when you counter. You give ground when you should hold it."
"I'll fix it," Haegon replied, catching his breath.
"You will," said Aegor. "Because you're not your brother."
Haegon's jaw clenched. "Daemon tried—"
"Daemon dreamed," Bittersteel snapped, cutting him off. "He played at crowns and swords, courted singers and riddlers. He dyed his hair, took a false name, and chased prophecies. And where did that lead him?"
The boy didn't answer.
"He died with a lute in his hand, not a sword. He was brave, but foolish. You—" Bittersteel stepped closer, his voice like the ring of steel, "—you have your father's face, his strength. You bear the name. You will have his sword. But you must be harder. Wiser. If we are to take back what is ours, there can be no more dreaming."
Haegon raised his chin, the defiance in his eyes bright. "I'll be ready. When the time comes, I'll make them all remember. I'll be more than Daemon was."
Bittersteel smiled thinly, a rare show of approval. "Good. Then we begin again at dawn."
He looked toward the harbor, where the ships of the Golden Company rocked gently on the tide, their sails furled and silent. But soon they would carry dragons again—black ones.
And this time, the flame would not die.