Prologue
As far as Rogar could tell, winter was better on Dragonstone than any other place he'd yet seen.
Snow fell on occasion, but it never lasted long. It almost never froze on the island. Storms would certainly beset the inhabitants, but they were far more often of rain and hail rather than heavy snow squalls. The cliffs became death traps during those storms.
Rogar Waynwood was no stranger to the perils of cliffs and mountains. He'd spent his childhood exploring the mountains around Ironoaks. At least on Dragonstone, he did not have to worry about thick layers of snow rendering mountain passes impossible to use. He certainly did not have to worry about mountain clans on this island either. So long as one paid no heed to the constant damp or the stench of brimstone and sulfur, one could be quite content weathering out the winter on Dragonstone.
The island itself seemed to be alive. The maester spoke of its volcanic nature, but the smallfolk were convinced that a dragon still lived beneath the earth. The educated men clucked their tongues and stroked their beards at such talk, especially Maester Olyvar. "What's to be done with these bumpkins," he would sometimes muse aloud.
Rogar could not blame the smallfolk for these absurd beliefs. Dragonstone was a grim place, seemingly full of magic and mystery. The castle's lower levels still held ancient dragon bones here and there. The other squires loved to scare each other with the help of echoes which made even the smallest boy sound like a shrieking dragon.
There were also ghosts. The first year that Rogar came to the castle, the children of servants tried to scare him by telling him ghost stories. They spoke of Mad Queen Rhaena who would prowl the halls shrieking the name of her ill-fated daughter Aerea. They spoke of Rhaenyra, the Targaryen queen whose last child had been born in Sea Dragon Tower as a misshapen stillbirth. Rhaenyra herself had later met her end on Dragonstone, eaten alive by her half-brother's dragon while her son was forced to watch. There had also been tales of Valarr's children, whose milky cries were said to come from nowhere as they lamented a life outside the womb in which they'd died.
If Prince Aerion was disturbed by those tales, or even thought about them, he hid his fears well. None would ever dream of calling the prince afraid. He was a hero of the Third Blackfyre Rebellion, after all.
At present, he was training with his weapons. The prince was nearly forty years old, but he was still fit. Rogar watched on the sidelines as he swung a heavy wooden sword at Ser Torreo Aratus, the captain of Dragonstone's guard.
Ser Torreo was a Lyseni whom Prince Aerion had befriended whilst he'd dwelt in Lys. The prince had ridden with the Second Sons, and earned his reputation as a warrior. Ser Torreo had also ridden with the Second Sons, and had come to Westeros as a sworn shield to Aerion.
It seemed as if Ser Torreo was a kinsman to His Grace; both men had curly silver-gold hair which they grew long enough to rest on their shoulders. Both men's eyes were a shade of deep Valyrian violet.
As always, Ser Torreo put up a strong fight, but eventually yielded to the prince's fierce onslaught. Rogar marvelled at his master; he often pretended to be weary before one last burst of strength. How does Ser Torreo keep falling for that trick?
"Routed," Ser Torreo declared. He had lived in Westeros for years, but his Lyseni accent had not diminished. "Well fought, Your Grace."
Prince Aerion had already thrown aside his helm, turned away, and snatched at the flask which Rogar had been holding. Drinking deeply, he wiped sweat from his brow.
His hair was not greying, but even Rogar could see that it was thinning. He boasted a prominent widow's peak which no man was fool enough to point out.
"The dragon's meal ought to be ready by now," Prince Aerion mused, before turning to Rogar. "Fetch it and bring it to the Painted Table. Be quick about it, boy!"
"Yes, Your Grace!" Rogar had quickly learned to address the prince by his title before carrying out a task, even when Prince Aerion demanded haste. It was only his due, after all.
The cooks were well used to the prince's routine and expectations. Although he was the second son of King Maekar Targaryen, Prince Aerion had been living on Dragonstone for the last ten years.
By all rights, it should have been the abode of Prince Daeron, but he had shunned the heir's seat - Rogar had once heard Daeron call it "that gloomy abode" - in favour of Summerhall, where he'd grown up. He had lived there until his death of the pox at the year's beginning.
Rogar clambered up the countless stairs within the Stone Drum. Thankfully, there was no storm, so the tower was relatively quiet. Rogar had never gotten used to the terrifying clamour which gave the Stone Drum its name. It reminded him of all those tales of discontented and disquiet spirits, human and dragon alike - whose lives had ended abruptly in this grim castle. Howling winds and booming thunder became their shouts of rage and fear, or even threats against the living. It sometimes kept Rogar awake in his bed.
Though he'd never give voice to such a thought, Rogar wouldn't have blamed his master for being afraid of Dragonstone; this was the same castle where Aerion's cousins had died so many years ago. The Great Spring Sickness had taken them both, the same one which had taken King Daeron the Good.
That had taken place long before Rogar was born. He'd only heard stories of that time, as well as a rumour which none dared to whisper yet which almost everyone had heard at least once.
According to such calumnies, Valarr and Matarys had been murdered by their kinsman, Lord Bloodraven. Master of Whispers and Hand of the King alike, he was said to know the secrets of every man in the realm. Not a month went by that another man was not executed for treason, sniffed out by Lord Bloodraven and his army of Raven's Teeth. Or maybe it was his lover, the lady Shiera Seastar. She was known as a mistress of the arcane arts, and her powers could only be guessed at.
Finally, Rogar reached the top of the Stone Drum and entered the Chamber of the Painted Table. He was sweating from his long ascent, especially since he had to go slowly so that he could balance the heavily plate in his hands. As befitting a Targaryen prince, it was large and heavy, made of solid silver. That alone would have been a burden if it weren't for the food heaped on top of it. The main course was a whole suckling pig, charred black on the outside as Prince Aerion liked best.
The prince had already changed out of his training gear. He wore a doublet of black velvet, upon which was stitched a raging fire. Tongues of yellow, orange, and red licked their way across Prince Aerion's arms and torso. It was a dazzling sight, but nothing less could be expected from Aerion Brightflame.
His Grace was lounging in a large chair which had been set where Dragonstone lay on the Painted Table. Ser Torreo was seated there too, glancing askance at Maester Olyvar. The old man held a scrap of parchment in his hands, fidgeting nervously as he watched Prince Aerion reading a scrap of parchment.
Rogar swiftly understood why the maester was so anxious. With the speed of a striking snake, Prince Aerion hurled the paper back at the maester.
"Explain that," he commanded. His voice was like the crack of a whip.
"Your Grace," Maester Olyvar answered, "there has been a rebellion in the Dornish Marches. His Grace the king has sworn to put it down himself."
Rogar gulped reflexively at this ill news. The Dornish Marches boasted some of the mightiest warriors in all the Seven Kingdoms. In the Reach and Stormlands alike, the marcher lords had almost all supported the Blackfyre cause when Daemon Blackfyre had plunged the realm into war. These treasons had not died with the Black Dragon. Many marchers, commoner and knight alike, had abandoned their lords to join Haegon Blackfyre just thirteen years before.
Prince Aerion was silent, but Rogar could tell that His Grace was growing wroth. There was a blazing expression in his wide eyes as he regarded the maester. "Do you think me stupid?"
Maester Olyvar was quick to deny it. "Of course not, Your Grace!"
"Then why do you repeat what is already written down? Do you assume that dragons cannot read?"
The grey-bearded maester adopted a humble tone. "I believe I misunderstood what Your Grace meant with your question…"
"Aha," Prince Aerion interrupted, cutting off the maester. "So it is you who are stupid. Is that it, then?"
Ser Torreo snickered as he watched the exchange. Rogar was too afraid to share in the older man's mirth. He was more confused than anything. Maester Olyvar was certainly pompous, but Rogar would not have thought him to be stupid.
Prince Aerion pointed at the discarded parchment. "Explain why this is the first I'm hearing of this!" He was not slouching in his chair any longer. His hands were gripping the ends of his chair.
Maester Olyvar gave a helpless shrug. "I cannot know His Grace's mind. I am only a humble man serving the gods. But mayhaps he did not wish to risk his heir's life?"
That made sense to Rogar, but Prince Aerion did not show any signs of acquiescence. He simply regarded the maester with a cold fury stamped on his handsome face.
"Pick up the parchment, you oaf."
As quickly as he could manage, the stone-faced maester obeyed the command.
"Read the fourth sentence aloud again," Prince Aerion ordered.
"We are riding south with all haste…"
"We," echoed Aerion Brightflame, even as he held up a hand to stop the maester. "You realise what that means, no? Even a stupid old man like you can see what that means."
"The royal 'we', is it not?" Maester Olyvar suggested.
Prince Aerion's knuckles were white. "You think he would address me, the dragon, with such royal airs? Father left, and he went along as well."
Maester Olyvar hesitated. "He, Your Grace?"
"AEGON!"
Rogar nearly dropped the prince's meal. A cry left the maester's throat as he recoiled in fear. Even Ser Torreo was surprised by the prince's enraged outburst.
Prince Aerion sprang to his feet, knocking his goblet over. Wine spilled across the Painted Table, but the prince did not notice. "He took that impudent wretch with him, but not me." He began to pace the chamber, seemingly growing more wroth with each step he took.
Rogar feared that his master's food was growing cold, but he was too terrified to interrupt this tempestuous tirade. Maester Olyvar, meanwhile, gave a strangled yelp as he ran forward and used his own sleeves to dab at the wine before it stained the Painted Table. Soon, his robes had a bloodstained look to them.
"This is a conspiracy," Prince Aerion snarled, oblivious of the others in the chamber. "Father wishes to supplant me as his rightful heir!"
The maester sighed. He had heard this accusation before. So had everyone on Dragonstone, for that matter. "Your Grace, it is indisputable that you are your father's heir. You are the Prince of Dragonstone."
"Am I? Has Father said so? It has been almost a full year since Daeron died," Prince Aerion retorted brusquely. "Father has not named me heir, and mark my words, he will not do it."
"Just as I warned you, Your Grace," Ser Torreo called out. He ignored the nasty look which Maester Olyvar shot at him.
Prince Aerion, meanwhile, gave no indication that he heard his sworn shield. He continued to pace about instead. "He never forgave me for Maegor either," he grumbled. He glanced at Ser Torreo. "I named my son after a true dragon! Is that so wrong? But Father is too bloody pigheaded to see that!"
He suddenly kicked the nearest chair with a roar. "And where is my fucking food?"
"Your Grace," Rogar stammered as he hurriedly put his master's food on the Painted Table. "H-here it is, Your Grace!"
Prince Aerion paced back to his chair and threw himself into it. Immediately, Ser Torreo offered his own goblet, still full of wine.
The prince took a long draught before tucking into the charred suckling pig. "I have let things go awry for far too long," he growled between bites. "
Rogar used to flinch at how Prince Aerion spoke of his kin; now he accepted it in silence, as Maester Olyvar did. For his part, though, Rogar could not imagine speaking so casually about his own brothers' deaths. But then, he was his father's heir. What do they think of me behind my back?
"Indeed, Your Grace," Ser Torreo urged. "Half the realm has noticed it. I daresay your father went south to avoid the question of who his new heir would be."
"That is a grossly impertinent manner to speak of the king," Maester Olyvar objected, even as he glared at Ser Torreo reproachfully. Rogar felt his respect for the maester rise.
"Impertinent, is it?" Prince Aerion looked up balefully from the piece of pork he was devouring with both hands. "I say my father is a treacherous old fool! He has a dragon for an heir and he wishes to pass him over for a… a peasant-loving rat!"
The maester had no words for that. Or perhaps he was no longer shocked by the things which His Grace tended to say in private. Rogar could only imagine what others - such as the king, gods forbid - would have to say to and about Prince Aerion if they could hear what he said behind closed doors.
For his part, Rogar had certainly heard the stories and rumours surrounding his master and his supposed madness. It was difficult for him to decide whether they were true. Prince Aerion was certainly a hot-tempered man with a strong sense of his own abilities and a heightened taste for grandeur. But was that indicative of madness? Father had always been quick to silence his doubts, and even quicker to warn him not to make an enemy of his master. "One day, he will be king," he'd once growled, "and he will not forget those who stood by him. Nor will he forget those who ridiculed him."
"Your Grace," Maester Olyvar murmured. "Do you have any further need of me?"
"No. Begone," Prince Aerion decreed in that imperious manner. He did not even look up to give that command, so focused was he on his food and wine. Rogar quickly darted forward, picked up the wine cask, and refill his master's goblet when he saw the prince drain it.
As he stepped back, he felt the prince's eyes turn to him.
"Your father," said Prince Aerion after wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Did he ever tell you about the rebellion? Did he ever tell you how Haegon the Horrible met his end?"
"Some of it, Your Grace," Rogar answered. "He didn't say much. Said I wasn't old enough to know what happened."
His Grace snickered at that, even as he took another long draught of wine. His teeth were already a sickly brown colour. "Well, you look old enough now."
Rogar felt apprehension at these words, and especially at such a tone and glance from Prince Aerion. But he also felt a thrill of excitement. He had heard so many accounts of the Third Blackfyre Rebellion. Haegon and Bittersteel had sailed to Westeros at the head of the Golden Company, calling on the support of their allies in Westeros to rally to the Blackfyre standard.
Not a boy in the Seven Kingdoms had not recreated the rebellion in their mind, either alone or with their friends. Rogar had lost count of how many times he had slain Haegon the pretender or Bittersteel the attainted. He dreamed of being the hero who wrested the lost Targaryen sword Blackfyre from Haegon's hands and restored it to House Targaryen, the sword's rightful owners.
"What do you know of it, then?" Prince Aerion asked as he held out his goblet for more wine.
Rogar dutifully poured more red liquid from the cask. "I've heard stories, Your Grace. Father said it was you who fought him before he yielded."
"Indeed," Prince Aerion drawled. "A true man would not have given up his sword. There might have at least been some honour in fighting a dragon to the death."
Ser Torreo chuckled at that. "That was a fine day, Your Grace."
"I'll say this for Haegon," the prince remarked. "He led from the front. I suppose he wanted to live up to his father's reputation." He snorted with laughter as he took another drink.
"I heard he was one of the last ones to fall," Rogar offered. "You fought him for an hour before he finally yielded."
"An hour? Is that all it was?" The prince shook his head. "Battle does strange things to a man's mind. But aye, he did fight well, for a while anyway."
Rogar tried to imagine it. The red dragon and the black, each one silver-haired and purple-eyed. What astounded Rogar was that Prince Aerion had defeated Haegon despite the latter being armed with a Valyrian steel sword.
"He yielded when he saw that his army was crumbling. The Golden Company was in retreat, but we'd cut him off. We'd also captured Bittersteel, but I didn't know that at the time. Instead, I decided to put Haegon in his place."
Rogar frowned. "How did you do that, Your Grace?"
"We put a crown of paper on his stupid head," Prince Aerion drawled. "Him standing there without his sword, wearing a paper crown." He let out a burst of laughter. "We found one of his brothers, too. Younger than the others, he was." He looked at Ser Torreo. "Which of the vermin was he again?"
"Aethar," Ser Torreo replied. "Aethar Blackfyre, Your Grace."
"Just so," Prince Aerion affirmed, then turned back to Rogar. "Your father slew him, if I recall. The Blackfyres had killed his grandfather during the first rebellion, and he wanted revenge. So I made sure he got it." His grin widened. "We put that lad's head in Haegon's arms. Forced him to kiss his brother's lips one last time before we cut him down for good."
Rogar was horrified. Such a barbaric act was beyond anything he could have imagined. Father had always been so proud of fighting alongside this prince, and he had always put his trust in Father's faith in Prince Aegon against all evidence to the contrary.
Prince Aerion's voice was becoming slurred as he drank yet more wine to wash down between mouthfuls of food. "Old Bloodraven arrived on the scene after he'd secured Bittersteel. We gave him Haegon and Aethar's heads. Paper head still on his head too, heh. We put those heads on the back of a cart, then we made Bittersteel walk behind it all the way back to King's Landing!" He hooted at the memory. "Bloodraven and I were wagering on whether Bittersteel would weep. "He has no tears, that one," Bloodraven told me. "His blood is black from spite." Turns out he was right," Prince Aerion added with a little shrug. "The hoary bastard never so much as cried out. Just stared and blinked, saying not a bloody word."
The prince suddenly thumped the table clumsily. "Why in the seven fucking hells did my uncle spare him?"
"Who knows," Ser Torreo replied with a shake of his head. "Mayhaps he thought your grandfather would have shown mercy."
"Then they were both fools," Prince Aerion snapped. "If Grandfather had listened to Bloodraven sooner, then the rebellion need never have been fought!"
Rogar felt frightened. He knew that Lord Bloodraven had a thousand eyes and one. No doubt several of those eyes were fixed on Dragonstone.
"I suppose Old Bloodraven will be running things whilst Father and Aegon are out," Prince Aerion mused to Ser Torreo. "Father did not even ask me to come back to King's Landing. By all rights, he should have urged me to return and rule in his stead!"
Rogar was appalled as he watched a hurt expression come over Prince Aerion's face. "Father never liked Bloodraven," he gabbed in a hurt tone. "He was furious when Aerys passed him over as Hand of the King. He went back to fucking Summerhall rather than stay on the small council! And now he sees fit to choose a man he hates over me?"
Never before had Rogar seen Prince Aerion appear so vulnerable, so despondent. He wondered whether he should comfort his master with gesture or word. Before he could make up his mind, however, Ser Torreo spoke.
"You cannot trust Bloodraven, Your Grace. His own niece is married to that brat."
Prince Aerion frowned. "You think he will choose Aegon over me? He knows how pathetic he is, more than anyone! He has walked in my shadow all his life! He would rather sit in some Flea Bottom tavern with that giant ape of his!" He turned and spat furiously onto the floor. His spittle landed on Rogar's shoes, but the young squire was careful not to react.
Rogar knew about whom the prince was speaking. Ser Duncan the Tall was, by all accounts, a common hedge knight. Any other man might have spent his days in utter obscurity, dying young and bloodily in some way or another. Instead, Ser Duncan's name had become known to many in the Seven Kingdoms. Rogar's master never even liked to speak Duncan's name aloud, let alone speak of him. Others were more forthcoming, and so Rogar had learned of the knight's journey through fragments and retellings.
It had begun at Ashford, many years before. Prince Aerion had been attacked by the hedge knight when he was chastising a band of lowly puppeteers. When Duncan had chosen trial by combat, the prince had made it a trial of seven instead. It had been one of the greatest spectacles in living memory. Prince Aerion had summoned his father, elder brother, three knights of the Kingsguard, and Lord Steffon Fossoway to join him in the duel. On the other side, Duncan had been joined by a handful of knights whose names Rogar hadn't learned. The only exceptions were Lord Raymun Fossoway of New Barrel, Lord Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm, and - most astonishingly of all - Prince Baelor Targaryen himself.
The trial had been disastrous for House Targaryen. Not only had the gods deemed the hedge knight victorious, but they had punished the royal family with kinslaying. Prince Maekar had slain his own brother during the bout, much to the devastation of the realm. It had been the first disaster of several which followed it.
As for Ser Duncan, his star had continued to rise. A guilt-stricken Maekar had permitted his youngest son to go gallivanting about the kingdoms as Duncan's squire. Now, the boy had become a full-grown prince, married to a daughter of House Blackwood with five children. He'd even had the temerity to name his eldest son after Ser Duncan. As for the hedge knight himself, he had been appointed to the Kingsguard by King Maekar and assigned to watch over Prince Aegon and his family.
Small wonder that Prince Aerion is affronted, Rogar thought. He carries himself as a dragon, and yet his father favours the prince who spent his childhood among the smallfolk.
Prince Aerion suddenly arose from his chair, holding out his arms for balance. His legs were wobbly, but his eyes were wide open and alight with purpose.
Ser Torreo frowned at him. "Your Grace?"
Instead of answering him, Aerion stumbled out of the chamber, chuckling to himself. Rogar and Ser Torreo were quick to follow him out.
"Your Grace, where are you going?" Ser Torreo called.
"To see Wisdom Darny!" The power of his thunderous voice - augmented by the echoes which reverberated throughout the Stone Drum - was spoiled slightly by a fit of hiccoughs which struck the prince as he went on his way.
Rogar shuddered. He feared Wisdom Darny. He resided on Dragonstone as a representative of the Alchemist's Guild.
He didn't know how far back this guild's history went, but they certainly carried themselves as an old and prestigious organisation. The Targaryens had often invited such airs. King Aerys, in particular, had been a generous patron, as had his Hand, Lord Bloodraven. Prince Aerion was another admirer; he had been the one to make Dragonstone a permanent establishment for the pyromancers.
Wisdom Darny and his apprentices had been granted generous quarters in the tower known as the Windwyrm. Rogar knew that the prince wanted them to produce wildfire, but it was a slow and tedious process to do properly, much to his consternation. Not a week went by where he didn't visit them and demand to know how much longer the process would take.
When they entered the guild's abode, it was not Wisdom Darny who greeted them. Instead, it was a man whom Rogar did not recognise. He was of average height and black-haired except for a fringe of white at his temples. His appearance was plain, except for a pendant he wore around his neck. The pendant itself was of crude metal, but encased in it was a small sapphire.
"Who are you?" Prince Aerion demanded.
"Gaebril, Your Grace," came the man's soft-spoken answer. "I began my apprenticeship with Wisdom Darny four days ago."
Prince Aerion grunted. "And where is your master, then?"
"He is indisposed, Your Grace. I would be honoured to assist you in his stead."
"No doubt," Prince Aerion observed dryly. "Mayhaps you can hand me a clay pot of wildfire instead of him"
"Alas." Gaebril bowed his head. "Wisdom Darny has been too ill to finish his work."
Even if he hadn't quaffed more than five goblets' worth of wine, Prince Aerion's wrath would have been stoked. Now, however, he looked ready to strike the hapless assistant. "It's been four fucking months! You mean to tell me the dotard can't make a single dram of wildfire for me?"
"It has proved very difficult, Your Grace," Gaebril answered humbly. "In fact, Wisdom Darny even requested that I bring a sample of wildfire with me to assist his progress."
The prince perked up immediately. "Well," he demanded, "why didn't you say so?" He held out his hand expectantly. "That sample will suffice for my purposes."
"With the greatest respect, Your Grace," Gaebril protested, "I would caution you. It is not a fresh jar of wildfire. Age will make it stronger, and more unpredictable. Any man would dread such a dangerous concoction."
"Any man, you say," Prince Aerion observed scornfully. "But why should a dragon be afraid of fire?"
Gaebril gave a low bow, then went away into another room. It was not long before he reemerged, clutching a small clay jar with both hands. Rogar shuddered as he watched the jar exchange holders.
"Your Grace," Gaebril murmured, but the prince had already turned away from him. He kept his head down as Ser Torreo followed in Prince Aerion's wake. Rogar hesitated only for a moment, regarding the sapphire in Gaebril's pendant as it seemed to shine with a light of its own.
He had better things to do than ponder what was clearly just a trick of the light. Turning his back on Gaebril, Rogar hurried after his master.
"It is time, Torreo," the prince was declaring confidently. He still held the jar in both hands, walking more slowly and steadily than before. Dragon he may be, but he still fears wildfire, Rogar mused.
"Time, Your Grace?" Ser Torreo stared in amazement.
"Indeed! Summon the Narrow Sea Houses. Such a spectacle requires an audience!"
""** "*" *"*"* "*"* "*"*" *"*"* "*"* *"* "*"* "* " *"*" * " *"* " *" *" *"*"* *"" "* "* " *"*"*"*
Rogar was still wondering what this spectacle was to be when the feast began three days later.
The Great Hall of Dragonstone was large enough for nearly three hundred people to eat comfortably. At present, less than half the hall was occupied. More than two thirds of that number comprised of those lords sworn to Dragonstone and their entourages.
At least, they were representatives of those houses. A number of the lords had not attended, much to Prince Aerion's consternation, so their heirs had come instead. Lord Daemian Velaryon had gone south with much of the royal fleet to collect Maekar's southeastern bannermen and bring them to the Dornish Marches. His lady wife came instead, apologising for her Lord Daemian's absence. Lord Hugh Sunglass was very ill, according to his younger brother.
Lord Melwys Celtigar had come, though Rogar found him to be a taciturn and ill-favoured man. Lord Bryen Chyttering and Lord Mathis Bar Emmon were also in attendance. Both asked after the health of Prince Maegor, and both had brought their young daughters to Dragonstone.
Despite the paltry turnout, Prince Aerion seemed to be unusually jovial about it. "The Conqueror's first assembly was humble too," he observed to Ser Torreo as the dinner began. He cheerfully drank with his knights and guests whilst the first courses were being served.
His wife sat beside him at the main table. Daenora Targaryen was at least twelve years younger than her husband, who was also her cousin. Rogar thought her to be a very comely and graceful woman, though she was a very modest woman who seemed half-afraid of her husband. After hearing the way Prince Aerion sometimes spoke to her, Rogar could not blame her for that, though he kept such sentiments to himself.
It was a particularly cold day on Dragonstone, so the castle attempted to compensate. The Great Hall was exceptionally well-lit, with a large fire roaring away in the hearth.
These events were the worst part of being a squire. Rogar longed to tuck into the food before him, but he was duty-bound to attend Prince Aerion until he said otherwise. And so he stood by, discreetly refilling the prince's goblet whenever it was empty.
Prince Aerion had also arranged for the clay jar of wildfire to be placed on the table by his food. It went unnoticed and unremarked upon as the feast began, but Rogar could not help but wonder what his master meant to do with it.
Finally, Prince Aerion rose to his feet and held up a hand. The hall quickly went quiet as every eye turned to the prince.
"My lords," Prince Aerion declared. "My ladies! I am pleased to have such an assembly beneath my roof!"
Hands thumped the table, accompanied by cries of "hear hear", "hail to the prince," and other such things.
Prince Aerion held up his hand again for silence. "We sit on Dragonstone at present. The ancient stronghold of mine own family! It was the home of dragons!"
There was more applause to that, but Rogar could see that several people wore curious and confused expressions.
"And soon," Prince Aerion continued triumphantly, "it will be the home of dragons once again!"
Rogar could not help doing a double take to that. He could see others doing the same, including Princess Daenora.
Prince Aerion picked up the clay jar and walked around the main table. His gait was hampered somewhat by his inebriation. Rogar followed him as they made their way to the hearth, where they were more easily seen by everyone in attendance.
Prince Aerion held up the jar with a flourish. "Witness me, my lords and ladies! Today, the dragons will be reborn!"
Rogar was sweating profusely as he stood close by the hearthfire, but he paid it no mind. He gaped in amazement as he watched Prince Aerion open the jar. He caught a glimpse of dark emerald liquid before the prince raised the jar in both hands over his head.
"The true heir of dragons stands before you," Prince Aerion declared. "Now you will see him come into his own at long last!"
With that, he lowered the jar and put it to his lips, much to Rogar's shock. He's going to drink it?!
A gasp left his lips before he could suppress it. Prince Aerion had already tipped back the jar and begun to swallow the wildfire.
The prince, to his credit, had stood more than three paces from the hearthfire, perhaps because he saw the sense in keeping the wildfire out of the fire's range. But although no flames came close to Prince Aerion or the clay jar, the wildfire suddenly came alive.
Emerald and jade flames burst from the clay jar and the prince's mouth. His scream was cut off, or perhaps it was simply drowned out by the shrieks of those in attendance. Men, women, and children were either fleeing the hall or else were rooted to the spot in terror.
As Prince Aerion collapsed to the ground and writhed in agony, Rogar did not hesitate. He turned to one of the nearby tables and seized a pitcher of water. Running back to his master, he splashed him full in the face with the pitcher's contents.
He might as well have dumped a pitcher of air upon the prince, for the green flames continued to dance. The clay jar's contents had spilled down all across Prince Aerion's front. His clothes disintegrated, and his pale skin blackened. Much to Rogar's horror, his master's once-handsome features seemed to melting away. His eyes suddenly burst out of their sockets, leaving two blood-red holes.
Rogar screamed in horror; without thinking, he tore off his Targaryen surcoat and tried to smother the green flame with the cloth, just as he'd seen Maester suppress a dropped candle flame at Ironoaks.
With a roar, the wildfire ate through the heavy fabric and began burning Rogar's hands. His wails went from fear to pain as he leapt backward.
It was too late; the wildfire seeped into the young squire's clothes and even his skin. It spread from his hands to his body, to his legs, to his face.
By then, of course, Rogar had collapsed, not far from his master, who had already ceased to move. Soon, Rogar could no longer heed him. He could not breathe, he could not see, and he heard nothing but the ghastly, unearthly sound of his own screeches.