Chapter Text
Chapter One
115 AC
The Hill of Rhaenys had not seen such splendor in years.
Bright pavilions dotted the grassy slopes beneath the Dragonpit, their silks snapping in the summer breeze, black and red most prominent, though the colors of a hundred houses mingled freely among them. Banners streamed from temporary poles and wooden stands, and the air rang with music, laughter, and the clang of steel upon steel. King Viserys I Targaryen had decreed that his nameday be celebrated not within the Red Keep’s stone walls, but here, beneath the shadow of the dragons themselves.
“It is fitting,” the king had said. “Let the realm remember who we are.”
The celebration began with sport. Knights from across Westeros tilted at one another upon the lists laid at the hill’s base, their lances shattering to cheers from the gathered crowds. Lords shouted wagers, ladies waved favors, and squires ran breathless beneath the sun. Though no prince took the field, several highborn youths rode well enough to earn notice, and the king applauded each bout with genuine delight.
At the royal pavilion, King Viserys sat upon a raised dais, dressed in black velvet stitched with red thread, his crown catching the light. Though his body bore the marks of age and indulgence, his expression was open and pleased, a man content to see his realm at peace, if only for a day.
Queen Alicent sat beside him, elegant in green silk trimmed with gold. Her children were close at hand: Prince Aegon, already bored by the pageantry; Princess Helaena, murmuring softly as she watched the banners twist in the wind; and Prince Aemond, five years of age, sitting straighter than any of them, his attention divided between the jousting field and the Dragonpit above.
Princess Rhaenyra occupied the king’s other side, radiant in red and black, her sons clustered near her chair. She laughed easily with her father and exchanged polite words with the queen, though those with sharp eyes might have noticed how their smiles did not always reach their eyes.
It was all cordial. Careful. As yet, the court still pretended not to see the fault lines forming beneath its feet.
Daemon Targaryen lingered at the edge of the royal circle, silver hair gleaming, his expression unreadable. Laena Velaryon stood nearby with her daughters, while Princess Rhaenys watched from her seat with a calm, assessing gaze. Lords of the realm, Stark, Lannister, Tyrell, Arryn, Baratheon, filled the terraces and pavilions, each house displaying loyalty in color and courtesy, if not always in thought.
As the sun climbed higher, the final joust concluded to thunderous applause. Trumpets sounded, and servants moved swiftly among the guests with trays of wine and sweetmeats. The scent of roasted meats drifted through the air, mingling with grass and horse sweat.
Then the dragon pageantry began.
From the Dragonpit’s great doors emerged the dragonkeepers, robed and masked, leading forward smaller dragons accustomed to display, Syrax foremost among them, her golden scales catching the light as she unfurled her wings. The crowd gasped as she loosed a low rumble, smoke curling from her jaws. Other dragons followed, kept at careful distance, their presence a reminder of the power resting uneasily above the city.
Prince Aemond rose slightly from his seat, fingers curling at his sides as he watched them. His eyes followed every movement, every beat of wing. Something in his chest ached as the dragons passed.
One day, he told himself. One day.
At last, when the games were done and the pageantry concluded, a herald struck his staff upon the stone.
“Let the gifts be presented to His Grace, King Viserys of House Targaryen, First of His Name.”
The procession began. Lords stepped forward with offerings both extravagant and symbolic: jeweled cups, tapestries woven in Myr, a sword said to have been carried in the Conquest, horses bred for speed and endurance. Viserys greeted each gift warmly, laughing, thanking, sometimes insisting the giver share a cup with him.
It was a good day. A rare one.
Then the herald paused.
“A final petition, Your Grace,” he announced. “A trading house of the Narrow Sea seeks leave to present a relic recovered from the ruins of Old Valyria.”
The words fell like a stone dropped into water.
A murmur rippled through the gathered nobles. Even the musicians stilled. Viserys straightened, curiosity brightening his expression.
“Old Valyria?” he echoed. “That is no small claim.”
The merchants approached, three men, their cloaks dark and travel-worn, faces marked by salt and sun. Behind them, laborers strained beneath the weight of a massive object borne upon a reinforced litter, shrouded in heavy crimson cloth.
“We ask only that it be shown where such things belong,” the lead merchant said, kneeling. “Before the dragons.”
A silence followed. Then Viserys nodded.
“Very well,” the king said at last. “Let it be brought before the Dragonpit.”
The decision sent a ripple through the gathered crowd. Guards moved swiftly to clear a wide path as the procession turned uphill, nobles and royals alike rising to follow. It was only a short walk across the open stone before the Dragonpit’s great doors, yet each step felt weighted, anticipation tightening the air as the hill fell silent behind them.
The Dragonpit loomed overhead, its ancient stone blackened by centuries of flame. From within came the low, restless sounds of living dragons, breath like bellows, claws scraping faintly against rock. The litter was set down upon the broad flagstones before the entrance, directly beneath the shadow of the massive doors.
At a signal, the crimson cloth was drawn back.
What lay beneath was stone, dark and veined, immense, shaped unmistakably like a dragon’s egg, though far larger than any known to living memory. Its surface was traced with fissures like cooled magma, each crack catching the light as if something once molten had been trapped within. Its presence pressed upon the senses, heavy and strange, as though the world itself leaned inward to regard it.
No one spoke. Possibly due to fear or anticipation.
King Viserys took a slow step forward, squinting as though his eyes might deceive him.
“Seven save us,” he murmured.
From behind the great doors, the dragons stirred more restlessly now. Chains rattled. A low rumble rolled through the stone beneath their feet, not quite a roar, but close enough to make the ground tremble.
And there, beneath the open sky and the watching stone of the Dragonpit, something ancient waited to be remembered.