The ancient burial ground of House Targaryen stretched across the slopes of the Dragonpit like a stone garden dedicated to fire and memory. Here, for over a century, the dragon lords had laid their dead to rest in the traditional manner of Old Valyria—not buried in cold earth like common men, but consumed by dragonfire and transformed into ash that would dance on the winds forever. The great stone platform, carved from a single piece of black volcanic rock and inlaid with Valyrian glyphs that seemed to writhe in the afternoon light, had witnessed the passing of kings and princes, queens and dragon riders, each given to the flames that had defined their lives.
Today, it would receive Prince Baelon the Brave, heir to the Iron Throne and rider of Vhagar the Mighty.
The royal family and assembled lords had gathered in a great semicircle around the funeral pyre, their black mourning garments making them look like a murder of ravens against the stark landscape. At the center of it all lay Prince Baelon's body, wrapped in crimson silk and placed upon a bier of sweet-smelling woods from the Summer Isles. His armor—the same plate he had worn when he flew Vhagar against the Dornish—gleamed dully in the afternoon sun, and Dark Sister's sister blade, Blackfyre, lay across his chest in final honor.
King Jaehaerys stood at the head of the gathering, his aged frame draped in black velvet that made his silver hair seem to glow like moonlight. The crown of Aegon the Conqueror rested heavily on his brow, but his violet eyes remained dry—he had wept for his son in private, as kings must, and now showed only the dignity befitting the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Beside him, Queen Alysanne clutched a black silk handkerchief, her face pale but composed as she gazed upon the son she had raised from birth to manhood.
Behind them, the royal family had assembled in order of precedence. Prince Viserys stood with his pregnant wife Aemma, her condition just beginning to show beneath her mourning gown. Their daughter Rhaenyra, dressed in a tiny black dress that made her look like a silver-haired doll, held her father's hand while her violet eyes remained fixed on the wrapped form of her grandfather with the sort of solemn attention that suggested she understood, at four years old, that she was witnessing something profound and final.
Daemon stood with his wife Rhea and their son Jaehaerys, the three of them representing the union of dragon and bronze that had produced something entirely unprecedented. The young prince was dressed in black silk that matched his father's, his silver-gold hair crowned with a circlet of bronze that had been a gift from his mother's house. But it was his eyes—those impossible green eyes—that drew attention, watching everything with an intensity that seemed far too adult for his three years.
And arriving just an hour before the ceremony, after a hard flight from Driftmark, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen had taken her place among the mourners with the regal bearing that had made her known throughout the realm as the Queen Who Never Was. At thirty-seven, she remained strikingly beautiful, with the silver-gold hair and violet eyes of Old Valyria, though grief for her husband's uncle had carved new lines around her eyes. Her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon—the Sea Snake himself—stood beside her with the weathered dignity of a man who had sailed the Narrow Sea since boyhood and built one of the great fortunes of the realm through daring and determination.
Their children, nine-year-old twins Laenor and Laena, flanked their parents with the sort of formal composure that spoke of excellent breeding and careful instruction. Laenor bore the aquiline features of House Velaryon combined with the ethereal beauty of his Targaryen mother, while Laena showed signs of the stunning beauty that would one day make her one of the most desired women in Westeros. Both children watched the proceedings with the sort of intense attention that suggested they understood the significance of what they were witnessing—not just a funeral, but a moment that would reshape the succession of the Seven Kingdoms.
The assembled lords of the realm spread out behind the royal family like a tapestry of power and ambition. Lords Paramount and their heirs, ancient houses and newly risen ones, all come to pay their respects to a prince who had been widely expected to rule after his father's death. Now, with Baelon gone, the succession hung in question—would the realm follow Princess Rhaenys, daughter of the late Prince Aemon and rightful heir by the laws of primogeniture? Or would they choose Prince Viserys, Baelon's eldest son and a man of proven judgment? The answer would reshape the Seven Kingdoms, and every lord present knew it.
Septon Barth stepped forward, his aged frame draped in robes that seemed to shimmer with their own inner light. As the King's most trusted advisor and one of the wisest men in the realm, he had been chosen to deliver the funeral oration—a task that required not just spiritual authority but political delicacy, given the implications of Baelon's death for the succession.
"We gather here today," his voice carried clearly across the assembled mourners, each word chosen with the precision of a master craftsman, "not merely to mourn a prince, but to celebrate a life lived in service to the realm and the ancient traditions of House Targaryen. Prince Baelon the Brave was many things to many people—son to Their Graces, father to Princes Viserys and Daemon, grandfather to the young princes and princesses who represent the future of our dynasty."
His eyes swept across the gathering, taking in faces marked by grief, ambition, and careful political calculation. "But above all, he was a dragon rider—bound to the great Vhagar by ties that transcend the understanding of common men. Today, as we commit his body to the flames that gave life to our house, his dragon will light the pyre that sends his soul to join his ancestors in the halls of the gods."
A low rumble filled the air, growing stronger by the moment until it seemed to vibrate through the very stones of the Dragonmount. The assembled mourners looked up as one, and there—descending from the afternoon sky like a force of nature made manifest—came Vhagar.
The great dragon was a sight to stop the heart and steal the breath from the strongest warrior. Ancient beyond measure, larger than any living thing save perhaps Balerion the Black Dread in his prime, Vhagar moved through the air with the ponderous grace of something that had mastered flight before the pyramids of Meereen were built. Her scales, once a vibrant green, had faded with age to the color of bronze left too long in weather, and her wings—vast membranous sails that could have sheltered a great hall—beat with strokes that sent wind howling across the funeral ground.
But it was her eyes that commanded attention—golden orbs the size of shield bosses, filled with an intelligence that spoke of centuries of experience and a grief that matched that of any human mourner. She had been Baelon's mount for over thirty years, had carried him through battles and peaceful flights alike, had shared with him the bond that made dragon and rider something greater than the sum of their parts.
Now she flew alone, and her keening cry echoed off the mountains like the song of the world's sorrow.
Young Jaehaerys watched Vhagar's approach with eyes that seemed to glow in the reflected light of her scales, his small face serious and thoughtful. "She's singing," he said quietly, his voice just audible to those nearest him. "A sad song. She knows he's gone."
"Dragons don't mourn," Lord Corlys observed, though his voice lacked conviction.
"This one does," Jaehaerys replied with the sort of certainty that had marked his unusual pronouncements since birth. "She's been calling for him since he died. Flying over the city, looking for him, not understanding why he doesn't answer." The boy's voice grew soft with sympathy. "She's going to be very lonely now."
Vhagar circled the funeral ground once, twice, three times—each pass bringing her lower until she finally settled onto the ancient stones with earth-shaking impact. Up close, her size was even more overwhelming. She was easily twice the length of Caraxes, perhaps three times the bulk, with a head large enough to swallow a horse whole and claws that could rend castle walls like parchment.
But despite her immense size and obvious power, there was something heartbreakingly vulnerable about the way she approached her dead rider's bier. She moved with careful, almost delicate steps, her great head lowered as she sniffed at the wrapped form that had once been the man who commanded her flight.
The assembled mourners watched in awed silence as the ancient dragon began to keen—a sound unlike anything most of them had ever heard. It was music and anguish combined, a wordless song that spoke of loyalty beyond death and loss beyond comprehension. Several of the ladies began to weep openly, and even hardened knights found their eyes growing bright with unshed tears.
"Now," King Jaehaerys said quietly, his voice barely audible above Vhagar's mourning song. "Dracarys, old girl. Give him to the flames, as he would have wanted."
Vhagar raised her great head, her golden eyes fixed on the king who had been her rider's father, and for a moment it seemed she might refuse—might deny the finality that dragonfire would bring. But then, with a sound that was half roar and half sob, she opened her jaws and breathed.
The fire that erupted from her throat was like looking into the heart of a forge worked by gods. White-hot flame touched the funeral pyre, and Prince Baelon's body was consumed instantly—not burned but *transformed*, flesh and bone and silk and steel all becoming one with the fire that had defined his life. The heat was so intense that the assembled mourners had to step back, shielding their faces with their hands as the very air seemed to shimmer and dance.
The pyre burned with colors that had no names—blues and greens and purples that seemed to exist beyond the normal spectrum of human sight. This was dragonfire, the flame that had conquered kingdoms and forged the Iron Throne, and in its light Prince Baelon the Brave was given his final honor.
When the flames finally died, nothing remained but ashes that caught the afternoon wind and swirled upward toward the sky, carrying the last earthly remnant of a good man toward whatever realm awaited the souls of dragon riders.
Vhagar watched the ashes dance on the wind, her great head tracking their movement with the sort of intense attention a mother might give to a departing child. Then, with one final, heartbroken keen, she spread her wings and launched herself skyward. But instead of flying toward the Dragonpit as protocol demanded, she turned north—toward the lonely peaks of the Vale where she and Baelon had spent some of their happiest flights.
"She won't take another rider for a while," young Jaehaerys observed matter-of-factly as the great dragon disappeared into the distance. "She's too old, too sad. She'll live in the mountains and hunt sheep and remember better times. But she won't die—not for a long while. She's too stubborn, and she has something to wait for."
"What?" Princess Rhaenys asked, curious despite her grief.
Jaehaerys looked at her with those ancient green eyes. "The dance," he said simply. "When the dragons fight, she'll come back before it starts. Someone will need her then—someone worthy of her strength and her sorrow."
The adults exchanged uncomfortable glances, still unsettled by the boy's strange pronouncements, but the funeral was concluded and protocol demanded they return to the Red Keep for the traditional feast. As the great procession began to form for the journey back to King's Landing, families clustering together while servants hurried to pack the ceremonial items that had been brought for the funeral, young Jaehaerys found himself walking beside his twin cousins from Driftmark.
Laenor and Laena Velaryon were impressive children—beautiful, well-mannered, and possessed of the sort of natural confidence that came from being born into one of the great houses of the realm. At nine, they were old enough to understand the political implications of the day's events, young enough to be fascinated by their unusual cousin.
"Is it true you have prophetic dreams?" Laena asked with the directness that would one day make her a formidable political player in her own right.
"I dream about things," Jaehaerys replied carefully. "Sometimes they're things that haven't happened yet. Sometimes they're things that happened a long time ago. And sometimes..." He paused, his expression growing distant. "Sometimes they're things that happened to someone else, but feel like they happened to me."
"That's impossible," Laenor said, though his voice carried curiosity rather than disbelief. "You can't remember things that happened to other people."
"Can't you?" Jaehaerys asked, genuinely curious. "Don't you ever have dreams where you're someone else entirely? Where you know things you've never learned, or feel sad about losses you've never experienced?"
The twins exchanged glances, the sort of wordless communication that developed between siblings who shared everything. "Sometimes," Laena admitted quietly. "But Maester Runciter says those are just our minds playing tricks on us, mixing up stories we've heard with our own thoughts."
"Maybe," Jaehaerys agreed, though his tone suggested he didn't believe it. "Or maybe some souls are older than the bodies they wear. Maybe some of us have lived before, in other times, other places."
"That's heresy," Laenor said, though he sounded more intrigued than shocked. "The Faith teaches that each soul is created new by the Seven."
"The Faith teaches many things," Jaehaerys replied with a wisdom that was unsettling in one so young. "Not all of them are true. The dragons know better—they remember things from before the Doom, before Valyria, before men learned to ride the wind on wings of fire. That's why they choose their riders so carefully. They're looking for souls old enough to understand what it means to be bound to something eternal."
As they walked, the conversation turning to lighter topics—the games children played at Driftmark, the differences between mountain life and island life, the relative merits of various sweets served at royal feasts—none of them could know that they were laying the foundations for relationships that would define the coming civil war. In the years to come, these children would grow into the players who would tear the realm apart in their struggle for power and succession.
But for now, they were simply cousins getting to know each other, walking in the shadow of dragons and the weight of destiny yet to unfold.
---
## The Dragonpit - Later That Evening
The Dragonpit had always been a place where the impossible became mundane and the mythical took on flesh and scale and fire. Built in the early years of Targaryen rule to house the dragons that had grown too large for the older facilities beneath the Red Keep, it was a monument to the power that had united the Seven Kingdoms—a great domed structure that could be seen from miles away, its weathered stone walls bearing the scars of dragonfire and the passage of nearly a century.
As the royal party approached the ancient bronze doors in the gathering twilight, young Prince Jaehaerys could feel his heart racing with an excitement that had nothing to do with childish curiosity and everything to do with a calling that seemed to resonate in his very bones. Somewhere beyond those doors waited the dragon that had been haunting his dreams since birth—Vermithor the Bronze Fury, second only to Vhagar in size and majesty, mount of the Old King and one of the last living links to the conquest itself.
"Remember," King Jaehaerys said quietly as they paused before the entrance, "Vermithor is not a pet or a plaything. He is one of the great dragons of the world, older than any of us, more dangerous than a dozen armies. We approach him with respect, we maintain proper distance, and no one—*no one*—does anything without my explicit command."
His violet eyes swept over the assembled party: Queen Alysanne at his side, her face still marked by the day's grief but bright with curiosity; Prince Daemon, hand resting instinctively on Dark Sister's hilt as his eyes tracked every shadow and movement; Lady Rhea, elegant in her bronze-colored silks but tense with the protective instincts of a mother watching her child approach mortal danger; and the children—Rhaenyra bouncing slightly on her toes with barely contained excitement, and Jaehaerys himself, standing with an unusual stillness that suggested he was listening to something the others couldn't hear.
"I understand, Great-grandfather," Jaehaerys said solemnly. "I won't do anything to make him angry or afraid."
"It's not his anger I'm worried about," the old king muttered as the Dragonkeepers moved to open the great doors. "It's his affection that concerns me. A dragon's love can be as deadly as its fire."
The doors swung open with a groan that seemed to echo from the very foundations of the earth, revealing the vast interior of the Dragonpit in all its ancient glory. The space was enormous—large enough to house a dozen of the great beasts comfortably, with a vaulted ceiling that disappeared into shadows and massive chains that could restrain even the largest dragon when necessary. Torches burned in iron brackets along the walls, casting dancing shadows that made the carved dragon reliefs seem to writhe and move with lives of their own.
But it was the inhabitants that commanded attention.
Princess Rhaenyra immediately gravitated toward a relatively small golden dragon who was coiled near one of the side chambers like a cat made of precious metal. "Syrax!" she called happily, hurrying toward her dragon with the sort of fearless affection that marked the bond between rider and mount.
"Careful, little princess," one of the Dragonkeepers warned in his accented Common Tongue. "She grows restless when strangers approach too quickly."
But Syrax seemed perfectly content to receive her young rider's attention, lowering her elegant head to nuzzle against Rhaenyra's cheek with surprising gentleness. The dragon was beautiful—smaller than the great beasts of legend but perfectly proportioned, with scales that gleamed like burnished gold and eyes like liquid amber.
"She's gotten bigger since last month," Rhaenyra observed proudly, running her small hands along Syrax's neck scales. "Master Keeper Arrax says she'll be large enough to ride within the year!"
"And then your real education will begin," King Jaehaerys observed with fond amusement. "Flying a dragon is considerably different from simply visiting one in its pen."
But Jaehaerys barely heard the conversation about Syrax. His attention was fixed on the far end of the great chamber, where something enormous stirred in the shadows like a mountain coming to life. The sound that emerged from those depths was unlike anything he had ever heard—a rumble so deep it seemed to emanate from the very bones of the earth, a song of bronze and fire that made his heart race and his breath catch in his throat.
And then Vermithor emerged from the shadows, and the world changed.
The Bronze Fury was magnificent beyond description—a living embodiment of the power and majesty that had conquered kingdoms and forged dynasties. Where Vhagar was ancient and weathered, Vermithor was in his prime—massive but not yet slowed by age, powerful beyond measure but still possessing the fluid grace that marked the greatest of dragonkind. His scales were the color of burnished bronze, each one the size of a dinner plate and polished to mirror brightness by his own fire. His eyes were molten gold with vertical pupils that seemed to see straight through flesh and bone to the soul beneath.
But it was his *size* that truly staggered the assembled party. Even King Jaehaerys, who had ridden Vermithor for decades, stepped back in shock.
"By the Seven," Queen Alysanne breathed. "He's... he's grown enormous."
Indeed, the Bronze Fury had increased dramatically in size since the last time the royal family had visited the Dragonpit. Where once he had been merely "large," he was now approaching the legendary proportions of Vhagar herself. His head was the size of a carriage, his neck as thick as an ancient oak tree, his wings—when partially spread—capable of casting the entire party into shadow.
"Master Keeper," King Jaehaerys called to the senior Dragonkeeper, his voice tight with concern. "How long has he been... like this?"
The weathered old man, his bronze mask gleaming in the torchlight, bowed respectfully before answering. "The growth has been... unusual, Your Grace. In the past year alone, he has gained perhaps a third of his previous mass. The feeding requirements have become... significant."
"A third?" Daemon repeated incredulously. "Dragons don't grow that quickly, not at his age. Vermithor is over seventy years old—he should be fully mature, stable in size."
"Yes, my prince. It has been... unprecedented. But it is not merely the physical growth that concerns us." The Dragonkeeper's accented voice carried notes of genuine worry. "His behavior has changed as well. He calls out at night—songs we do not recognize, in tones that seem almost... mournful? And he has been restless, pacing his chambers, looking toward the entrance as if waiting for something."
"Or someone," Jaehaerys said quietly, his green eyes fixed on the great dragon with an intensity that made the adults around him distinctly uncomfortable.
Vermithor had noticed the approaching party and was watching them with those enormous golden eyes, his great head tilted at an angle that suggested curiosity rather than hostility. But it was the way his gaze kept returning to the small silver-haired figure at the center of the group that made everyone present hold their breath.
"Stay close," King Jaehaerys commanded quietly. "And remember—no sudden movements, no loud noises, and absolutely no—"
He never finished the sentence.
Young Prince Jaehaerys, moving with a calm determination that was terrifying in its complete lack of fear, simply walked away from the protective circle of adults and approached the Bronze Fury directly.
"Jaehaerys, no!" Rhea screamed, lunging forward, but Daemon caught her arm with reflexes honed by years of combat.
"Don't," he said urgently, his own face pale with terror but his warrior's instincts recognizing that sudden movement might trigger the very attack they feared. "Any distraction now could be fatal. We have to trust him."
*Trust him?* Rhea thought wildly. *He's three years old, and he's walking toward a dragon that could incinerate him with a single breath!*
But Jaehaerys seemed utterly unaware of the danger, or perhaps simply unconcerned by it. He walked toward Vermithor with the sort of confidence usually reserved for approaching a favorite horse or a particularly large dog, his small hands held out in a gesture of greeting and peace.
"Hello, beautiful," he said in his clear child's voice, the words carrying across the vast space of the Dragonpit like they were meant to be heard by everyone present. "I've been waiting to meet you properly. I'm sorry it took so long."
Vermithor's response was immediate and utterly unprecedented.
The great dragon—the Bronze Fury who had fought in the conquest of Dorne, who had faced armies and lesser dragons with equal ferocity, who was known throughout the realm for his proud independence and fierce temper—lowered his enormous head until it was nearly touching the stone floor and began to *purr*.
The sound was like nothing any of them had ever heard from a dragon before. It was gentle, almost musical, the sort of rumble a giant cat might make while being petted by its favorite person. And when Jaehaerys reached out to place his tiny hands against the dragon's snout—scales warm as forge-heated metal, each one larger than the child's entire hand—Vermithor's eyes actually closed in what could only be described as bliss.
"Impossible," the Master Keeper whispered in his native Valyrian, his bronze mask unable to hide his complete shock. "In forty years of tending dragons, I have never... this is not how dragons behave. Not even with their bonded riders."
But it got even more extraordinary.
Jaehaerys, with the complete lack of self-preservation that marked very young children, walked even closer to the great dragon and wrapped his small arms around as much of Vermithor's snout as he could manage—which wasn't much, given that the dragon's head was easily six times the boy's height. But the gesture was unmistakable: it was a hug, pure and simple, the sort of affectionate embrace a child might give to a beloved pet.
And Vermithor—the Bronze Fury, second-largest dragon in the world, terror of the Dornish and bane of rebels—was clearly enjoying every moment of it.
The great dragon made soft sounds of contentment deep in his throat, the sort of gentle rumbles that vibrated through the stone floor and made everyone present feel them in their bones. His eyes remained closed, and his massive form seemed to relax completely, as if all the restless energy that had marked his recent behavior had suddenly found its purpose and settled into perfect peace.
"He's been lonely," Jaehaerys explained matter-of-factly, his voice muffled against the dragon's warm scales but still audible to the stunned observers. "He loves you, Great-grandfather, and he's served you faithfully for so long. But his heart has been waiting for something else, something... younger. Someone he could grow with and protect and teach to fly properly."
The boy pulled back slightly to look into Vermithor's golden eyes, which had opened again and were regarding him with something that could only be described as adoration. "You've been waiting for me, haven't you? Growing bigger and stronger so you'd be ready when I was old enough to need you."
The dragon's response was to gently nuzzle the child with his snout—a gesture so careful, so tender, that it brought tears to Queen Alysanne's eyes.
"It's true then," King Jaehaerys said quietly, his voice carrying a mixture of wonder and resignation. "The bond exists. Vermithor has chosen his next rider."
"But he's three years old," Daemon protested, though his voice lacked conviction. The evidence before his eyes was too overwhelming to deny, too clearly supernatural to explain away. "He won't be ready to actually ride for years."
"Dragons are patient creatures when they find what they're looking for," the Master Keeper observed, his voice filled with professional amazement. "Vermithor will wait. He will grow larger, stronger, more protective. And when the young prince is ready..."
"The realm will have a new dragonrider," King Jaehaerys finished. "Perhaps the greatest since Aegon the Conqueror himself, if this display is any indication."
Jaehaerys finally stepped back from his embrace with Vermithor, though the dragon seemed reluctant to let him go. The great bronze head followed the boy's movement, those golden eyes never leaving his small form.
"Will you wait for me?" Jaehaerys asked seriously, looking up at the dragon with those impossible green eyes. "I promise I'll visit you as often as I can, and when I'm big enough, when I'm strong enough, we'll fly together. We'll see the whole world from the sky, just like in the dreams."
Vermithor's response was to lower his head once more and breathe—not fire, but the gentlest possible puff of warm air that ruffled the boy's silver hair and made him giggle with delight.
"I'll take that as a yes," Jaehaerys said solemnly, then turned back to his family with a smile that was pure childhood joy. "He likes me!"
"That," said Queen Alysanne with a laugh that was part delight and part hysteria, "is the understatement of the century."
As they prepared to leave the Dragonpit, Vermithor following Jaehaerys' movement with his eyes until the great doors finally closed between them, King Jaehaerys found himself walking beside his great-grandson with a thoughtful expression.
"You were never afraid," he observed quietly. "Not for a moment. Most grown men would have been terrified to approach Vermithor so directly."
"Why would I be afraid?" Jaehaerys asked, genuinely puzzled by the concept. "He's mine, and I'm his. We belong together. Being afraid of something that belongs to you is like being afraid of your own heart."
The old king studied the boy's profile in the torchlight, seeing something ancient and knowing in those green eyes that had no business existing in someone so young. "In all my years, all my experience with dragons and their riders, I've never seen anything like what happened in there tonight."
"That's because it's never happened before," Jaehaerys replied matter-of-factly. "Not exactly like this. Usually, the dragon chooses when the rider is older, ready to bond properly. But Vermithor..." He paused, his expression growing distant. "He's been waiting for me since before I was born. Since before he was hatched, maybe. Some bonds are deeper than one lifetime, Great-grandfather. Some connections reach across death and rebirth and time itself."
*Rebirth?* King Jaehaerys thought, feeling a chill despite the warm evening air. *What does this child know about rebirth?*
But before he could ask, Jaehaerys had skipped ahead to rejoin Rhaenyra, who was chattering excitedly about the dragons they had just seen and making elaborate plans for the flying lessons she would begin as soon as Syrax was large enough to carry her.
Behind them, through the great bronze doors of the Dragonpit, Vermithor sang a song of contentment and waiting that echoed through the ancient stone chambers like a promise of things to come.
The dance was still years away, but the partners had begun to find each other. And in the dreams of a three-year-old prince with impossible green eyes, the music was already playing—a song of bronze and fire, of love and loss, of destiny that would reshape the Seven Kingdoms forever.
The game had truly begun now. The only question was whether any of them would survive to see how it ended.
---
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