POV: Aerys Targaryen
A day had passed since my uncle's coronation and the messenger from the Vale delivered his news. I sat in my father's chamber while he changed into riding clothes. The room smelled of leather, oil, and smoke. War smells, I thought.
"Let me come," I said.
My father finished fastening his tunic and looked at me through the mirror. His eyes were hard.
"No. You are not ready."
"Yes, I am, Father. I know I am."
He turned slowly. "And how do you know this, boy? How are you sure you're ready to see blood? To take a life?"
I smiled, though my heart beat fast. "Because I don't know how to explain it. There's a feeling inside me. A feeling that I was made to fight. You have to let me go."
My father opened his mouth to answer, but the chamber door burst open.
My mother stood there.
She looked from him to me, and her expression sharpened like a drawn blade. "Do you plan to let our son of nine namedays ride to war with you?"
Maegor didn't flinch. "He asked."
"He is a child," she snapped.
"He is a dragon," my father replied.
"He is my son," she said, stepping between us. "And I will not have him turned into a corpse for the sake of pride."
The silence stretched tight.
My father exhaled slowly. "He is not coming," he said at last.
My chest tightened. "Father—"
"That is final."
I clenched my fists. "I can fight."
"I know you can," he said quietly. "That is not the same as being ready."
His voice softened, but his eyes didn't. He walked toward me and placed a heavy hand on my shoulder.
"You will stay," he said. "And you will do nothing. Do you understand me?"
The words stung worse than a slap.
"Yes, Father," I forced out.
He studied me for a long moment, as if memorizing my face. Then he reached for his sword belt.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
He paused at the door.
"To claim my birthright."
I frowned. "Your birthright?"
He looked back at me, and for the first time that morning, he smiled.
"Balerion," he said. "The Black Dread."
The name filled the room like thunder.
My mother went pale. "Maegor… you cannot be serious."
"I have waited long enough," he answered. "The realm will not follow a king they do not fear. It will follow a dragon it remembers."
"He killed men grown and hardened before you were born," she said. "He is not a horse to be saddled."
"He is mine," my father said simply.
The air seemed to tremble with the weight of it.
I stepped forward. "You're going to claim him… now?"
"Yes."
"Then I'm coming to watch."
"No," both my parents said at once.
I met my father's eyes. "You told me to do nothing. Watching is nothing."
For a heartbeat, I thought he would refuse.
Then he laughed — low and dangerous. "Stay behind me," he said. "If he kills you, your mother will kill me."
My mother did not laugh.
We left the chamber together. Outside, the wind carried the distant roar of dragons over King's Landing. Caraxes answered from the sky, a shriek of fire and hunger.
And somewhere in the Dragonpit, the Black Dread waited.
POV: Maegor Targaryen
The Dragonpit stank of ash, old meat, and fear.
It was a smell Maegor had known since childhood. It clung to the back of the throat and never truly left. Even now, walking beneath the great dome of cracked stone, he could taste it. The guards at the gates knelt as he passed, but their eyes followed him with the quiet dread reserved for men who walked willingly toward monsters.
Good, he thought. Let them fear.
Behind him came the echo of smaller footsteps. He did not turn. He knew the rhythm of them.
"You were told to stay back," he said.
"I am behind you," Aerys answered.
Maegor almost smiled.
The air grew hotter as they descended. Torches guttered in their brackets, flames bending toward the dark like they were being drawn in. The pit was quiet — too quiet. The lesser dragons shifted in their chains, sensing what stirred below. Wings scraped stone. A low rumble rolled through the cavern.
He is awake.
At the lowest level stood the great doors. Iron. Blackened. Scarred by heat so intense the metal had warped. The guards stationed there looked as though they wished to be anywhere else in the world.
"Open," Maegor commanded.
One hesitated.
Maegor's gaze found him.
The man moved.
The doors groaned apart.
Heat slammed into them like a wall.
Aerys sucked in a breath behind him. Even Maegor felt it — that ancient, suffocating warmth, thick as a forge. The chamber beyond was vast, lost in shadow. Chains thicker than a man's torso lay coiled like dead serpents across the floor.
And in the darkness…
Something moved.
Two eyes opened.
Red.
Not bright like flame. Deep. Old. The color of coals that had burned for a thousand years and forgotten how to die.
Balerion shifted.
The sound was not a roar. It was the earth remembering fire.
Dust rained from the ceiling. The chains groaned. His wings unfurled slowly, each membrane stretched wide enough to swallow a village. His scales were not black. They were the color of night where no stars had ever shone.
Maegor stepped forward.
Every instinct in his body screamed to kneel.
He did not.
"You are mine," he said.
The dragon's head lowered.
The heat intensified. The air shimmered. Balerion's breath rolled over him, thick with smoke and ancient blood. The smell of burned cities clung to it. Harrenhal. Old Valyria. Conquest.
The dragon opened his jaws.
Teeth like swords.
Aerys gasped behind him.
Maegor raised his chin. If he died, he would die standing.
"Do it," he whispered.
Balerion lunged.
The world vanished into shadow and heat.
Maegor did not run.
At the last instant, the dragon stopped. His snout hovered inches from Maegor's face. One breath would have melted flesh from bone. The pressure alone drove Maegor to one knee, stone cracking beneath him.
The dragon watched.
Measuring.
Judging.
Maegor forced himself upright. His skin blistered. He did not care.
"I am the blood of the dragon," he growled. "You carried my father. You burned my enemies. You are not a god."
His voice echoed through the cavern.
"You are mine."
Silence.
Then Balerion screamed.
The sound shattered torches. Guards fled. Aerys fell to his knees, hands over his ears. The dragon reared back, chains snapping like thread. Fire burst from his mouth — a column of black-red flame that lit the chamber brighter than day.
And Maegor laughed.
He stepped into the fire.
For a heartbeat, the world was nothing but heat and pain and glory.
Then the flames curled around him.
They did not touch.
Balerion lowered his head.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The Black Dread bowed.
Maegor reached out. His hand pressed against scales hotter than molten steel. The dragon did not pull away. Beneath his palm he felt it — the heartbeat of a mountain.
Alive.
Ancient.
His.
Behind him, Aerys whispered, "Father…"
Maegor turned. His son stared at him like a man staring at a god.
"Remember this," Maegor said. "This is what it means to rule."
He climbed the dragon without saddle or rope, fingers digging between scales. Balerion did not resist. When Maegor settled between the ridges of his neck, the dragon spread his wings.
The chamber vanished in wind.
Stone exploded outward as Balerion launched skyward. The Dragonpit roof cracked like an egg. Daylight poured in. The city screamed below.
King's Landing shrank beneath them.
Maegor threw back his head and roared with the dragon.
For the first time in his life, the world felt the correct size.
Small.