Chapter Text
Deep below the Citadel, beneath the still, calm-blues of the Honeywine River, and the swaying lush-grasses of the Reach— far beneath than even the famed labyrinths of the Hightower— he kneels, bowed upon the warm-stone in the breathless-humidity of the caves.
‘A thousand-years, the Citadel has owned three dragonglass candles,’ Archmaester Ambrose speaks aloud, his wearied-voice echoing in the sparsely lit chamber. ‘They came from the elder days, ere when your forebearers had not yet left Valyria, nor had the Doom wrought the Freehold’s uttermost destruction.’
Vaegon’s eyes have remained fixed upon them; ever since he had ceased his descent.
Placed upon three, ornately carved holders, lay the ancient dragonglass candles of old.
Two of them, blacker-than-night, glint with a wet-sheen in the faint torchlight.
His lilac-eyes narrow as he takes in their details, only noticing when Archmaester Ambrose moves, his torch-light swaying in-hand, revealing their intricacies.
Each of the candles are gripped by a glass, black sceptre; serpentine firewyrms coil around their lengths, their elongated bodies etched in sinuous curves. Each of the firewyrm’s maw gapes open, and from within the depths of its throat rises the candle.
Only when Archmaester Ambrose’s voice raises, does Vaegon emerge out of his stupor.
But still, his purple-eyes remain set upon the green candle in the center. The tallest of the three.
‘No acolyte, nor maester, nor lord of learning has rekindled their flame,’ he says. ‘Not since Valyria had stood proud— nearly five centuries ago.’ And the Archmaester continues onward. ‘It is said that the Dragonlords who wielded them could bend their thoughts across leagues, touching the minds of others afar. Some whisper still, that those who dared light their wicks beheld glimpses of prophecy itself… Perhaps your ancestor, Daenys did.’
A feeling claws to the forefront of his mind. Not the emotions of fear, or shame— feelings that had once been dashed upon the humiliating training-sessions of the yard— but something foreboding.
A feeling yet unknown to Vaegon.
‘My Prince, are you well?’ the Archmeaster says, concern laced within his question.
A dry-cough rattles through Vaegon’s chest as he nods, muttering absently of the heat as strands of silver-hair lay damp across his forehead.
His eyes, long-since fixed upon the center candle, widen in awe as a beautiful, brilliant lime-green pulsates from wick to socket. He watches as the dark-hues of green intermingle with the lighter-tones, as though a green-fire is caged within its glassy-interior.
He knows what must be done.
His voice emerges steadier, more resolute: ‘Let us be done with this trial so that I may yet become a Maester of the Citadel.’
The curt-nod of the Archmaester is sufficient confirmation that his vigil has begun.
‘Fret not, my Prince,’ the wisened old-man says, ‘no one has yet lit them in a thousand-thousand seasons. All who have passed through these halls of learning have faced this trial, and all have withstood it. Think not that this shall mar your worth as an acolyte.’
His lilac-coloured eyes flit from the green-candle before him to the Archmaester’s wistful gaze, and back to; the sparse-light of the torch-flame dimming as the old-man ascends the stone-steps, denying him any offerings of light, yet the internal-flames of the dragonglass candle burst forth in their intensity.
Before him— blooming in the presence of those of dragonkin— descended of dragonlords.
Fire and Blood, Vaegon thinks.
Fire and Blood is the answer.
Fire and Blood runs as hotly in my veins as it did in the Valyrians of Old.
An often-time sullen man; he knows this of himself— has heard the whisperings of Viserra, Saera, and others— but in this, he permits a faint-smile to grace his features.
A particularly jagged-rock cuts into his knee and Vaegon knows what must be done.
He places his palm upon the rock, feels the raised stone-stripes and presses his hand upon it. Skin splits, blood wells, and a wound is borne. His silver-brows furrow in consternation as pain radiates outward from the center of his palm like ground-shakes, but blood has been spilled.
The price has been paid.
Fire and Blood, Vaegon thinks, and thinks, and thinks again, lifting himself from his knelt-position upon the dank stone and surges forward, pressing his bloodied-hand to the face of the green-candle, smearing upon its surface Valyrian dragonblood of its creators.
The blackened-wick swirls with a flame not borne of this world. Nameless hues without kin bleed into one another; indigos so dark it leaves a void within its wake, writhing and shifting into deep-forged crimsons and the blistering hues of orange-dragonflame.
And yet, at its core, the green reveals itself— not the green of forests or gemstones, but a deeper, long-forgotten and forbidden hue.
He closes his lilac-eyes, and the World disappears alongside him.
No droplets of moisture form on his skin, nor on the breadth of his brow, nor does the breath he takes feel cloying and noxious.
He opens his eyes to nothingness.
Sheer emptiness expands in every-direction.
Beneath his feet, pools an abyss of black-coloured waters that stretches endlessly within this dark, paradoxical-world.
But the black-waters do not soak his boots.
He roams within this mummers World; Vaegon’s logic bowing to the incomprehensible power of the dragonlords of Old.
For how could this exist, if not by by sorcery, he reasons.
He wanders aimlessly for some time, until a faint-glow paints the horizon in inexplicable hues.
Swirls of indigo, crimson, orange, and the yellowest-yellows he has glimpsed, radiate and pulse. And deep within its origin, lays the dragonglass candle.
The green-coloured candle whispers; he hears it now.
The candle has much to impart upon Vaegon; he knows this to be true.
He steps forward; he runs forward.
Water sloshes as the empty world reverberates with noise until before him appears the candle upon its firewyrm bearer.
Vivid, unimaginable colours seep outward.
son of dragons… the voice whispers… of blood and seed of Aegon the Conqueror… dragons… dragons.. dragons.. it whispers, its voice male and female alike.
‘Show me.’ Vaegon says.
..as you wish… the voice answers… Vaegon.. of House Targaryen..