King's Landing, Dragonpit, Winter
Inside the Dragonpit was cold, filled with the sharp scent of old ash and stone. Several dragonkeepers stood gathered near the southern gate, their faces grim and lined with tension. Among them stood Ser Otto Hightower, clad in a dark green cloak, and Prince Viserys Targaryen, who was fidgeting with nervousness.
"You really think I can do it today?" Viserys asked, his voice low and a little uncertain. His eyes flicked toward the massive iron gates that led deeper into the pit, toward the beast that dwelled beyond.
Not being able to claim Balerion, the Black Dread, despite several attempts, had begun to wear down his confidence. Each failure chipped at the image of what a Targaryen should be.
Otto gave him a steady look. "Of course you can. You carry the blood of Old Valyria. Doubt is for small men, not Targaryens."
Viserys exhaled and glanced down at his hands, he hadn't noticed they were trembling. He clenched them into fists and nodded once, but the uncertainty remained etched across his face.
"The High Septon told you the stars are aligned?" he asked, trying to find reassurance in the divine.
"Yes," Otto said smoothly. "He said today is the most auspicious date for your action." His tone was confident, every syllable precise. "And unlike most days, I find myself inclined to agree with him."
Viserys gave a dry, slightly bitter smile. "So the gods have aligned, and even you believe. Then perhaps everyone will finally see a new rider atop the Black Dread."
Otto gave an encouraging nod, his lips curling into a smile. "And they will remember it. Not just your wife, not just the court, but the entire realm. What better symbol of strength and legitimacy than Balerion himself bowing to your command?"
Viserys glanced at him. "You always make it sound so simple."
"It is simple," Otto replied, "if you believe in yourself. The dragon feels—as they say. If you hesitate…he will know."
"Easy for you to say. You don't have to walk into the dark and face him alone."
Otto gave a short chuckle. "That's true. But I also don't have the blood of conquerors in my veins."
Viserys looked away again, toward the gate. "And what if he turns on me?" His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "He's old, yes, but still powerful. What if I push too far?"
Otto stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough for only Viserys to hear. "Then you meet your fate as a Targaryen should, on dragonback or in fire. But you won't die, Viserys. Not today. Not if you believe. He's let you climb his back before, hasn't he?"
Viserys nodded faintly.
"Then he knows you," Otto continued. "And if he knows you, then somewhere within that ancient being, there's recognition. Trust it. He hasn't thrown you off. That means something."
The prince was silent for a moment.
"He's so… massive. When I stand before him, it feels like standing before a mountain that could breathe fire and swallow armies. Like a memory of a time that was long before."
Otto didn't respond at first. Then he said softly, "Then become part of that memory. Make yourself worthy of it."
Viserys looked at him again. The nerves were still there, but so was something else now. Determination. Or the beginnings of it.
The dragonkeepers exchanged glances but kept their silence.
A creaking of chains drew their attention as a senior keeper approached, his face sun-weathered, half his hair burned away years ago by an angry hatchling.
"He's awake," the man said in a rough voice.
Viserys inhaled deeply, then exhaled slow. He gave Otto and the keeper a final nod, then turned and began descending the long, winding steps into the shadowed belly of the Dragonpit.
Each footstep echoed down the stone slope. The deeper he went, the colder it grew, the chill of winter with the damp of the earth, pressed in with age and fire and time. The faint scent of sulfur touched his nose.
Then he saw it.
The cavern opened into a vast chamber, blackened stone walls rising like a cathedral above. At its center, curled in uneasy rest, was a shadow out of legend.
Balerion.
The Black Dread.
Even at rest, his sheer size defied belief. His wings were folded, but each membrane stretched longer than sails. His scales were duller now, some flecked with grey, but they shimmered faintly in the torchlight like old iron. His ribs rose and fell like great bellows. His tail, thick as a ship's mast, curled near the cavern wall.
One red eye opened. It did not blink.
Viserys slowed, then stopped. His mouth was dry. He could hear his heartbeat louder than his footsteps.
Still, he walked forward.
Balerion's head turned slightly, massive jaws flexing once. Viserys stepped closer, not running, not flinching. He could feel the warmth of the beast's breath now, hotter than forge-fire, even in the dead of winter.
Then, carefully, he reached out.
His palm pressed against the thick, scaly hide of Balerion's neck. The skin beneath felt like old stone warmed by the sun, rough and ridged.
Balerion did not move.
Viserys stood there for a long moment, hand resting on the living mountain. Then he turned, scanning the ridges that led up toward the old riding saddle, aged leather, still lashed to iron rings fitted between shoulder joints.
He began to climb.
It was not easy. The ridges were massive, the height dizzying. Twice he had to pause and regrip, arms burning, breath coming quickly.
Balerion made no move to stop him.
Eventually, Viserys reached the saddle and slipped into it. He tightened the reins attached to the old harness. This was a rider's place. And he would ride.
Just once, Viserys thought, just once… you've let me climb your back. Let me ride you too. Just once.
He waited, barely breathing.
Then.
He felt it. A shift. A tremor through the dragon's body.
A low growl, not hostile….
Balerion turned his head slightly, one massive eye gazing back at him.
Viserys froze. Don't tell me…
Then, slowly, painfully slowly, the Black Dread began to rise. First, his wings stretched, creaking like ancient sails in the wind. Then his limbs straightened, pushing against the stone. The floor groaned beneath him.
Viserys gripped the reins tighter, barely daring to believe it.
Balerion took a step.
And then another.
The sound echoed like thunder through the pit.
Then came the roar.
It split the cavern, a blast of sound and fire and fury. The Dragonpit trembled. Dust fell from the ceiling above. Men standing at the gates outside dropped to their knees. Even Otto Hightower looked stunned.
The Black Dread moved forward, toward the cavern's mouth. Toward the light beyond the gate.
And on his back, for the first time in more than forty years, a Targaryen sat ready to fly.
Red Keep
The throne room was warm despite the season. Septon Barth stood beside the Iron Throne, reading aloud from a rolled parchment. His voice was calm, loud.
"…and so the man claims his neighbor's dog mauled his sheep, but has no witness save his mother-in-law."
From atop the Iron Throne, King Jaehaerys leaned forward slightly, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Let the man who owns the dog pay restitution. One silver stag, and a fresh fleece come spring."
The next parchment was already in Barth's hand.
"A merchant from Cobbler's Square reports the theft of three bolts of dyed silk. Claims it was done in the night…"
"the suspects are two boys, possibly orphans, last seen near the south market. No further leads."
Jaehaerys rubbed his temple. "Tell the city watch to post a reward for their return. Half a stag for each bolt recovered. And find the boys. Feed them, question them, and see if they can be apprenticed."
Barth gave a soft nod and passed the order to a page.
The murmur of court continued. Lords and ladies lounged at the sides, barely feigning interest in the petty matters of the city. The rhythm of rule was steady. Predictable.
Until it shattered.
A roar.
A sound like no other.
Raw. Primeval. It rolled through the stone walls like thunder given breath.
The hall froze.
Barth's head snapped up, lips parting.
Jaehaerys rose half from his seat. "That…" he murmured.
Then came the clamor, guards rushing into the hall, red cloaks fluttering, boots loud on stone. The Kingsguard stepped in as well, swords half-drawn, forming a shield around the throne.
The rushing guards fell to their knees before the steps of the dais, panting.
Jaehaerys frowned. "Who is it? Which of mine flies so close to the Keep without warning?"
There was a beat of silence.
Then the lead guard, still catching his breath, stammered, "It's… it's the Black Dread, Your Grace. Balerion."
Gasps rippled through the court.
Barth turned sharply to Jaehaerys. Their eyes met…same conclusion, same name forming behind their eyes.
Viserys.
Jaehaerys was already striding down the steps.
"To the windows."
The court surged toward the tall glass panes. Nobles craned their necks, servants pressed against marble pillars. Outside, the pale winter sun was eclipsed by something massive, its shape ancient, unmistakable.
A black shadow circled high above the Red Keep. Balerion. Wings like torn sailcloth stretched across the sky. His scales caught the light in dull glints of bronze and gray. Even in flight, he seemed impossibly vast.
And on his back, small as a flea from this distance, sat a boy of silver and gold.
Viserys… you mad, stubborn boy… Jaehaerys clenched his fists not in anger, but in a surge of joy and fierce pride.
"Seven," a lady whispered.
Septon Barth let out a long breath, eyes still locked on the sky. "He's done it."
Across the Red Keep, atop the highest balcony of Maegor's Holdfast, Aemma stood alone, save for her maid, Lysa.
The wind tugged gently at her pale blue cloak, her silver-gold hair loose and lifting in the cold breeze. Her hands gripped the stone railing, knuckles white.
She hadn't blinked since the roar.
Balerion's shadow passed over the holdfast again, casting the tower briefly in shadow. The wind from his wings reached even here.
Lysa stood a step behind, voice soft. "Congratulations, my lady. It seems Prince Viserys has finally claimed his dragon."
Aemma didn't reply at first. Her gaze never left the sky.
There he was.
A silver shape on black, holding fast to the dragon's back, his form steady.
He did it…
She exhaled slowly. Not from relief. Something more complicated.
Her heart beat quickly.
She had watched him try and fail for over a month, returning from the pit with feigned smiles and downcast eyes. He always carried some excuse, lighthearted words to mask the weight of disappointment. But Aemma had seen through them. Behind the laughter, she could feel the quiet frustration he never spoke aloud.
But today…no excuse.
Today, there was only sky.
She glanced at Lysa and gave a small nod. A smile found her lips, hesitant, but real.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
Another roar echoed overhead, shaking the balcony tiles beneath her feet.
Aemma looked up again.
She had never seen anything so terrifying. Or so beautiful.
And her husband was riding it.
Dragonmont, Dragonstone
High in the jagged ridges of Dragonmont, hidden far above the ground, there lay a stretch of land consumed by shadow. It was a place where no sunlight reached: not during morning, nor noon, nor twilight. The surrounding cliffs blocked every angle of light, leaving the area in a state of near-perpetual darkness.
Within this lightless zone was a cave, narrow-mouthed and yawning deep into the mountain's side.
Inside, a lone figure sat.
Aegon.
His body was wrapped tightly in layered cloth, hood drawn low, scarf wound around his neck, and a strip of linen veiling his face. The cloth had been soaked in vinegar, its acrid scent sharp in the still air. It clung to his clothes, his gloves, even the soles of his boots.
Precaution.
He wasn't willing to risk exposure to spores or unknown lifeforms that might have taken root in this sunless cave. Without light, the place was a haven for fungi, molds, or worse, creatures adapted to thrive in complete darkness.
But Aegon wasn't blind here.
To any other man, the cave would be pitch-black. But to him, it was as bright as day.
He did not see with his eyes, but with his spirituality, his extended awareness mapping the space around him. Every crevice, every droplet of moisture on the stone, every thread of unseen life was laid bare to his mind.
His focus, however, was fixed not on the walls, but on the darkness before him.
To the eye, it was empty space. But through his spirituality, he perceived something else.
An aggregate of magic.
An artificial aggregate, created by him. He had released raw magic into the cave and using his spirituality like a sculptor's chisel, guided it into cohesion. He shaped it slowly, carefully, feeding it into the ambient darkness until the two fused, interwoven into a single form.
It pulsed subtly in the void, an invisible mass suspended in the air. Magic particles flowed through it in a deliberate, three-dimensional pattern. Not random. Structured. Intentional.
That structure was what Aegon sought to unravel.
Because that pattern, complex, shifting, and veiled to all but his spiritual senses, represented exactly what he had hoped to find here:
The [Shadow Rune].