The fire crackled softly, sending long shadows dancing across the stone walls.
Rhaenyra sat cross-legged upon a cushion near the hearth, her silver-gold hair loose down her back, fingers absently tracing the embroidery along her sleeve. She was meant to be practicing her letters, or listening to her septa drone on about histories already half-memorized, but instead she watched her father with wide, curious eyes.
King Viserys Targaryen sat across from her, shoulders slumped in a way he never allowed the court to see. The Iron Crown was absent, resting upon its stand nearby. Without it, he looked less like a king and more like a tired man carrying a weight too heavy for him alone.
"Father," Rhaenyra said softly, breaking the comfortable silence, "tell me another story."
Viserys smiled faintly, though the expression did not reach his eyes. "Another one?" he asked. "You'll know more tales than your maesters at this rate."
She grinned, undeterred. "I like the ones you tell best. They sound… real."
That earned him a quiet chuckle. He leaned back slightly, gaze drifting toward the fire as if searching its depths for something long buried.
"Very well," he said at last. "What sort of story would you have tonight?"
Rhaenyra hesitated only a moment. "Tell me about Uncle Amon."
The name hung in the air.
The fire popped sharply, sending a spark skittering across the stone.
Viserys stiffened.
For a long moment, he said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the flames, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. Rhaenyra's smile faltered as she realized she had struck something fragile.
"I-" she began, then stopped herself. "I'm sorry, Father. I didn't mean..."
"No," Viserys said quietly, lifting a hand. "It's… all right."
He drew in a slow breath, then let it out just as carefully.
"You've heard the name whispered enough," he continued. "It was only a matter of time before you asked."
Rhaenyra leaned forward, her earlier excitement tempered now by curiosity tinged with concern. "Mother says I had an uncle once. A great one. But no one ever speaks of him."
Viserys closed his eyes.
"When I was young," he said, "I had two brothers. One stood at my right hand. The other…" He trailed off, then shook his head faintly. "The other stood ahead of us all."
Rhaenyra's eyes widened. "Ahead?"
"Yes," Viserys said. "Amon was the eldest. Tall even as a boy. Sharp-minded. Quiet in a way that made men listen when he finally chose to speak."
He opened his eyes now, gaze distant, softened by memory.
"Lords noticed him early. The North sent envoys when he was scarcely older than you are now. They spoke of old oaths, of blood sworn beneath weirwoods and dragonfire alike. They saw in Amon a king who would not bend easily."
"The North?" Rhaenyra echoed, awe creeping into her voice. "They wanted him?"
"They did more than want him," Viserys replied. "They pledged themselves. Both in ceremony and Ink, they vowed before both old, new, and those of Ancient Valyria that if the day was to come that Amon needed their swords, they would answer."
Rhaenyra felt something stir in her chest at that. The North was distant, cold, half-mythical in her mind. A land of ice and honor. To imagine them bending the knee willingly…
"And Dorne?" she asked suddenly, remembering another whisper she had once overheard.
Viserys looked at her in surprise. "You hear more than you let on."
She smiled innocently.
"Yes," he admitted. "Dorne had been watching him closely. They saw a oppertunity to better both themselves and the throne if they aligned with Amon."
His lips curved slightly. "They saw something in him they respected. Something dangerous."
Rhaenyra's eyes sparkled now, alight with fascination. "He sounds… Awesome."
Viserys hesitated.
"He was," he said at last. "But he was also feared."
She inched closer to him. "Tell me more."
He nodded, gaze drifting upward as if following a memory written upon the ceiling.
"When Amon claimed his dragon," Viserys continued, voice lower now, reverent, "the court believed it a jest. Balerion had not been ridden since before my birth. The Black Dread was ancient even then, scarred, vast, untamed."
Rhaenyra sucked in a breath. "Balerion?"
"The largest dragon ever to fly beneath a Targaryen," Viserys said. "Older than the seven kingdoms. Even stronger than some of the new gods."
She could hardly sit still now. "And Uncle Amon—?"
"He walked into the Dragonpit alone," Viserys said. "No chains. No songs. No spectacle."
His eyes darkened. "Some swore the ground trembled when Balerion stirred. Others claimed the dragon would devour him whole."
"And he didn't," Rhaenyra whispered.
Viserys shook his head slowly. "No. He mounted him."
Her breath caught.
"The dragon bent to him," Viserys continued. "Not in obedience. In recognition."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Rhaenyra's mind raced, conjuring an image she could not fully grasp—a man standing before the Black Dread, unflinching.
"What happened then?" she asked softly.
Viserys's expression changed.
The warmth faded.
"When our father died," he said, "the realm gathered to decide its future. Lords, ladies, knights, every voice that mattered."
Rhaenyra frowned. "That was when you became king."
"Yes," Viserys said. "But not without… division."
He closed his eyes again, fingers tightening around the arm of his chair.
"Amon stood before them in black armor, edged in red," he said. "He did not beg. He did not argue. He simply stood."
Rhaenyra could almost see it.
"They expected him," Viserys went on. "Many demanded him. They believed the choice was obvious."
"But you were chosen," she said carefully.
"Yes."
The word tasted bitter even now.
"When the crown was placed upon my head," Viserys said, "Amon did not speak. He did not shout. He did not draw his blade to meet my throat."
Rhaenyra waited, heart pounding.
"He left," Viserys finished. "He mounted Balerion and flew east."
Her eyes widened. "Just like that?"
"Like a storm breaking free of the sky," Viserys said quietly.
She swallowed. "Was he… angry?"
Viserys's mouth tightened.
"He must have felt betrayed," he said.
Rhaenyra didn't fully understand that, but she felt its weight.
"And after?" she asked. "What became of him?"
Viserys shook his head. "Nothing."
He stared into the fire.
"No raven ever reached us. No ship from Volantis carried word of him. The North heard nothing. Even the Free Cities fell silent."
"Not even rumors?" Rhaenyra pressed.
"Only whispers," Viserys said. "That the sky burned somewhere far to the east. That cities trembled beneath a dragon's shadow."
He fell silent.
The fire crackled.
Rhaenyra watched her father's shoulders sag, the years settling upon him all at once.
"I miss him," Viserys said suddenly, voice breaking.
She froze.
"I miss my brother," he repeated, softer now. "And I fear what the world may have lost… Someone who could've been the next conqueror for gods' sake."
He raised a hand gently. "That is enough for tonight, Rhaenyra."
She nodded, though her thoughts still raced.
"Yes, Father."
She rose quietly and moved toward the door. Just before stepping through, she glanced back.
Viserys had turned away, one hand covering his eyes.
She slipped out without another word.
The corridors were quiet as Rhaenyra walked, torchlight flickering against pale stone.
But her mind was alight.
She imagined him as she walked. Uncle Amon.
Not gentle like her father. Not wild like Uncle Daemon.
But something in between.
Older. Taller. Sharper.
She imagined silver-gold hair tied back, eyes dark with knowledge. A presence that commanded without cruelty. A dragon's shadow at his back.
Stronger than stories.
Better than legends.
Her heart fluttered at the thought.
When she reached her chambers, she paused at the window, gazing out toward the darkened sky.
"My nameday is soon," she whispered, almost shyly.
The wind stirred the curtains.
She smiled faintly, half-hopeful, half-afraid.
"I wish you'd come," she said softly. "Just once."
The sky did not answer.
Far away, beyond maps and memory, fire stirred, pummels of black with streaks of red mixed in, swallowed a ship, and a mighty dragonic roar echoed through the night.