The Dragonpit was alive with heat and noise. Inside the cavernous dome, smoke lingered in the air, and the chittering screeches of young dragons rang through the stone chamber. Aegon found Daemon crouched near one of the enclosures, trying, without success, to coax a snarling baby dragon into compliance.
"Zaldrīz ilzi naejot vēttan..." Daemon muttered in High Valyrian, gripping a charred length of meat with tongs.
The baby dragon snapped at the air but wouldn't come closer.
Daemon stood up with a growl of frustration and shouted, "Drēje! Nyke jaelagon hontes zaldrīz riña!" (Fuck! I want an adult dragon!)
The shout echoed through the pit, startling more than just the hatchlings. Several of them flared their wings and hissed, startled by the sudden noise.
From nearby, one of the older dragon keepers barked at him, "Quiet, prince! You'll spook the entire pit!"
Daemon muttered under his breath but backed away, casting a smoldering glare at the young dragons as if they had personally offended him.
Aegon chuckled quietly, arms crossed as he approached. "Maybe they just don't like your tone."
A few days ago, Daemon had made an audacious attempt to claim Dreamfyre, the proud she-dragon known for her brilliant blue scales and fierce temperament.
Dreamfyre was the largest dragon in the Dragonpit after Vermithor, Vhagar, and Balerion, moderately bigger than Caraxes, Meleys, or Silverwing.
The attempt had ended in disaster. Daemon had come sprinting out of the cavernous depths of the dragon lairs, yelling, hair partially singed and eyes wild with fury.
"Fuck that old cunt! She almost roasted me alive!" he'd screamed, slapping at the smoldering ends of his silver hair.
Viserys had been laughing about it ever since.
"Maybe she thought you were a rat," Viserys had teased the next morning, snorting with amusement. "A silver rat."
But Daemon wasn't one to be teased without striking back. "Better a silver rat than the shit shoveler of Balerion," he snapped, smirking.
Indeed, Viserys had recently begun the daunting process of attempting to bond with Balerion, the Black Dread himself.
The legendary beast, once the mount of Aegon the Conqueror, was now over two hundred years old. His body bore the marks of time: scarred, gaunt, with leathery wings that no longer stretched with the majesty of his prime.
His massive form rested deep in the Dragonpit, rarely moving, half-asleep in the gloom, yet still exuding an aura that turned hardened men into trembling boys.
Viserys had never seen Balerion fly, nor roar with the fury that had melted Harrenhal to slag. But that didn't matter. The stories were enough. The legacy was enough.
The mere idea of claiming such a creature, a symbol of raw power, a living relic of conquest, was enough to swell Viserys's pride to new heights.
Encouraged by sycophants like Otto Hightower and a circle of young lords desperate to win favor, Viserys had declared he would be the next rider of Balerion.
His declaration had turned heads, and raised eyebrows.
The first attempt had been a disaster.
Armed with a fresh goat carcass and a chest full of confidence, Viserys had descended into the pit, torch in hand.
He approached slowly, holding out the offering. The silence was overwhelming. Then, without warning, a low growl vibrated through the stone walls, deep, ancient, and terrifying. It was not a roar of aggression, but of disinterest… of warning.
A sound that said, "Leave, insect." Viserys froze. The torch trembled in his hand. When Balerion's head stirred slightly, one massive eye opening like a slumbering god's, Viserys had turned and fled, dropping the meat behind him and nearly tripping over his own feet.
The laughter from Daemon had echoed louder than the growl.
"Did the old beast yawn and almost inhale you, or was that a scream?" Daemon had teased for days.
Shaken but undeterred, Viserys changed tactics. If feeding didn't work, perhaps humility would. He began visiting daily, not to approach Balerion directly, but to clean the enormous chamber.
Bones, ash, soot, old scales, and droppings were slowly carted away by a team of handlers under his instruction, and often with his own hands.
The stench was awful, the work degrading, but he believed that if he proved himself useful, Balerion would warm to him. That perhaps the ancient dragon would see loyalty in toil.
Daemon, of course, was merciless in his commentary.
"Shit shoveler of the Black Dread," Daemon had called him, grinning wickedly.
Despite the teasing, Aegon had remained kind. "You'll do it, I know you will," he had told Viserys one evening. "If anyone can claim him, it's you."
Viserys had looked at him, surprised and touched. "Thanks, little brother," he said quietly, with rare sincerity.
Now, sitting on the worn stones near the Dragonpit entrance, the three brothers rested in the fading sun. Aegon was lost in thought when Daemon nudged him with a boot.
"So," Daemon said, raising a brow. "When are you trying?"
Aegon blinked, then gave a slow smile. "Tomorrow. I'll start tomorrow."
Daemon leaned forward with curiosity. "And which one are you aiming for?"
"You'll know tomorrow," Aegon replied, cryptic and calm.
Daemon clicked his tongue and snorted. "Try the baby dragons. Much safer. Less chance of ending up bald and broiled like me."
Just then, Viserys returned, dirt smudged on his tunic, the smell of ash clinging to him. He dropped onto the stones beside them with a sigh.
"Well?" Daemon grinned. "Did the Black Dread grunt in appreciation this time?"
"Better than screaming and running, no?" Viserys shot back. "At least I'm making progress."
Daemon rolled his eyes. "Progress? You mean less shit in your boots?"
"Jealousy is ugly on you," Viserys said with mock dignity.
Aegon laughed as the two bickered, content to sit between them. The tension of politics, rumors, and dragons faded for a while, lost in the warmth of sibling rivalry.
"My prince… are you sure? We can wait till your brothers come," the young dragonkeeper asked hesitantly, his voice tight with worry.
Aegon stood before the entrance to the dragon caves, his silver-blond hair catching the pale morning light, his violet eyes fixed and unreadable.
He had arrived before dawn, slipping into the Dragonpit while most of King's Landing still slept. Only the outer guards and this one young dragonkeeper were present, just as he had planned.
"I am sure," Aegon replied, his voice calm but firm.
The boy hesitated again, shifting his feet nervously. "It's just… it's not usually done alone, my prince. The older keepers—"
"I do not want anyone interfering," Aegon interrupted, his gaze turning steely. "No one guiding me. No ritualistic feeding or coaxing. I'll do it my way."
"But—"
"I am going inside," Aegon said sharply, taking a step forward. "When my brothers come, you may tell them."
The young keeper swallowed hard. "But… my grace…"
Aegon turned, his expression cold now, and spoke with iron in his voice. "Do you dare defy my orders?"
The keeper paled at the sudden shift in tone. "Never, your grace," he said quickly, stepping aside and bowing low. "Forgive me."
Without another word, Aegon walked past him and entered the caves.
The dragon caves beneath the Dragonpit were massive, ancient, and eerily quiet, save for the occasional rumble or shift of scaled bodies in the darkness.
The air was thick with heat and the acrid smell of ash, soot, and old blood. The stone beneath his boots was uneven, worn smooth in some places, jagged and treacherous in others.
Great stalactites hung from the high ceilings, dripping mineral-heavy water that hissed softly as it landed on patches of warm rock.
It was a place of living myth. The bones of old meals littered the corners, scorched black or picked clean. Dung baked in the rising heat of the dragons' breath.
The deeper he went, the more he felt the oppressive weight of time pressing in on him, the legacy of Valyria, of fire and blood.
And he was not afraid.
Torch in hand, he moved with quiet purpose, each step echoing slightly through the massive cavern. Shadows danced along the walls, shifting with every flicker of the flame.
His destination was clear.
Dreamfyre.
One of the oldest dragons still alive. A creature of both beauty and terror, graceful in form, monstrous in size. Larger than Meleys, larger than Caraxes, her sinuous form stretched like a serpent carved from moonlight and frost.
Only the ancient titans— Vhagar, Vermithor, and Balerion, had ever surpassed her in sheer mass and power.
Aegon's hand tightened around the torch. The heat from the flames was nothing compared to the warmth of the cave air, thick with the scent of sulfur, ash, and something older, the breath of dragons.
His palm was slick, but he did not loosen his grip.
He would not bribe her.
He would not flatter her.
He would face her.
He stepped forward, each footfall slow but deliberate, echoing in the cavernous dark. The light from his torch cast long, quivering shadows along the jagged walls.
Behind him, the entrance had already faded into gloom, swallowed by the belly of the Dragonpit.
There, he saw it.
Not a shadow, but the outline of a sleeping behemoth. The rise and fall of her breathing stirred dust from the floor.
He moved closer, and details began to form from the dark: the vast horns curling back from her skull like silver-bladed scythes, the jagged ridges down her spine, the sweep of her tail coiled around ancient bones and scorched stone.
He stood before her head, massive, majestic. Her eyes were closed, her breath heavy and steady, like the exhalations of a slumbering mountain.
The head alone was larger than his entire body. He could hear her heart in the air: slow, steady, ancient.
He took a deep breath and stepped closer.
Suddenly, the massive nostrils twitched.
The breathing stopped.
Then, in a blink, her golden eyes snapped open, slitted, vertical, and bright as molten coins. They locked onto him, unblinking, ancient intelligence behind them.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The silence screamed louder than any roar.
Then she rose.
Not with haste, not with threat, like a storm cloud unfolding, slowly, magnificently. Her wings unfurled slightly, brushing the walls of the cave. Talons clicked against the stone, and her neck arched high above him. Her mouth opened slightly, smoke curling from between her fangs.
Her scales shimmered a pale blue, almost ghostly in the dim firelight, tipped with silver that caught every flicker like starlight on water. Wings folded like a cathedral roof, spined and vast, lay tucked against her body.
Aegon didn't flinch.
He extended his right hand, palm steady, fingers outstretched. The torch in his other hand trembled as a gust of hot, sulfurous air surged past, causing the flame to gutter violently, casting flickering shadows along the ancient, soot-blackened walls of the Dragonpit.
And then, in a voice that rang with clarity and command, he spoke, not in the Common Tongue, but in the language of dragons, the language of Valyria, with every syllable ringing with ancestral weight.
"Dreamfyre… Āeksio."
(Dreamfyre… Serve)
The word echoed across the vaulted chamber like a ripple of thunder, swallowed by stone, but not forgotten.
It reverberated in the stale air, in the bones scattered across the cracked floor, and in the deep, primal memory of the beast before him.
Aegon felt it, not just a sound, but a pulse, emanating from within. His bloodline trait, of his class [Heir of Old Valyria], surged to life.
A resonance stirred, ancient and invisible, unfurling like unseen heat waves from his body, flowing out toward the great blue-and-silver dragon crouched before him.
Dreamfyre's eyes narrowed, sharp and ancient, fixated on the boy who dared command her. She had tested many before. Most failed.
But now… something shifted.
Aegon saw it, her pupils, once slitted and calculating, dilated slightly. A change not of mood but of recognition. Not full submission… but memory. Familiarity. As if something within her blood responded to the echo of Valyria within his.
She blinked slowly. Then, slowly, ponderously, her head began to lower, not submissively, but with hesitant curiosity. Her breath was deep and ragged, like a forge pulled open after years of silence. Her eyes studied him, nostrils flaring, tongue flicking the air, tasting the resonance, the blood, the power.
But then something changed.
Her pupils suddenly contracted, sharp and tight once again. As if the primal part of her,the wild, fire-born beast, rebelled. The ancient instincts warred against the call of blood and bond.
And then, with a piercing shriek, she roared.
The sound was deafening, thunder trapped in stone, a cry of fury and defiance that rattled the very foundation of the Dragonpit. The ground trembled beneath Aegon's feet. In the far corners of the pit, baby dragons startled from sleep screeched and scattered, wings flapping in panic.
Dreamfyre reared slightly, her massive jaws opening—
And she unleashed.
A torrent of searing orange flame erupted from her maw, a wave of living fire that surged across the floor and engulfed Aegon's entire form. It washed around him, over him, licking stone and ash, flooding the cavern in light and heat.
To anyone watching, it would have seemed like incineration. An execution.
But Aegon did not move.
He stood there, eyes still locked with the dragon's, consumed in a pillar of flame.
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