Chapter Text
The candles in the royal chambers were guttering out, dripping hot wax onto gilded sconces shaped like the intertwined tails of dragons, phantoms of a bygone majesty. The air in the Red Keep was heavy, saturated with the smell of dust, old parchment, and the faint, lingering scent of almonds wafting from the braziers.
Daeron II Targaryen, called "the Good" by the people and "the Learned" by his enemies, sat in his chair, wrapped in an ermine-lined mantle. His body, no longer as robust as in his youth, felt every draft that wandered through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast. But it was not the cold that made his heart beat faster. For the past few weeks, he had lived with the sensation of a stranger’s gaze on the back of his neck. It felt like the tickle of a sword blade poised a millimeter from his skin.
He knew someone was in the room. The shadows in the corners seemed thicker than usual, and the silence was too unnatural for a castle that never truly sleeps.
"You are either overconfident or a fool to break into the King’s chambers," Daeron said without turning his head. His voice sounded calm, though his fingers involuntarily gripped the armrests.
From the deep darkness near the heavy tapestries depicting Aegon’s Conquest, a figure detached itself. The light of the dying hearth caught strands of hair—a silver so bright it could belong to only one bloodline.
"Both... or neither... It depends on how you look at it," the stranger’s voice was young, yet it carried a weight of steel and a certain predatory confidence.
Daeron rose slowly. He tried to project the assurance the crown demanded, though his back ached and his knees trembled treacherously.
"Who are you?"
The youth took a step forward, a mocking glint in his eyes. He placed a slender hand over his heart in a theatrical, almost offended gesture.
"To not recognize your own kin. How boorish."
The King felt a chill settle in his chest. Memories of the rebellion, of red banners bearing a black dragon, and the field of the Redgrass flashed before his eyes.
"A Blackfyre, then," Daeron exhaled, a note of revulsion creeping into his voice. "Daemon’s son? Or his grandson? What new war have you brought to my doorstep?"
The figure snorted disdainfully, a sound like a slap.
"I would sooner drive a knife into my own throat than share blood with those traitors."
"Such hatred," Daeron squinted, trying to make out the face in the gloom. "Who are you then, if not one of them?"
The youth approached, slowly removing the dark cloth that covered the lower half of his face. Before the King stood a young man of incredible, almost painful beauty, characteristic of ancient Valyria. His eyes were the color of the darkest amethyst, deep and cold, while his sharp cheekbones and straight nose looked as if they had been carved from gemstone.
"Still don't recognize me?" he whispered.
Daeron froze. There was something disturbingly familiar in the boy’s face. It wasn't a copy of any one person, it was a bizarre tapestry of traits. He saw in those eyes the suspicious squint of his son Baelor, his heir, but in the line of the lips and the proud tilt of the head, he recognized the sternness and iron will of Maekar.
"Still nothing? Fine. A small hint," the youth took another step; he was now standing nearly flush against the King, smelling of smoke and something feral.
"When I was an infant, you ordered me killed. You feared I would repeat the fate of your half-blood brother. You feared the shame, feared the wrath of the gods... or perhaps you were just afraid. Does nothing come to mind now?"
The youth smiled predatorily, a smile that had nothing to do with youth. It was the snarl of a wolf that had finally cornered its prey.
Daeron recoiled, his face turning the color of ash. A terrible memory, one he had spent years trying to bury under piles of state papers, clawed its way out. A secret sin committed for the sake of the realm's stability. A connection that should never have existed. A sin between brother and brother that had sired this child.
"It is you..." the King’s voice broke into a rasp. "Maekar’s bastard... The sin that was meant to vanish. How in the seven hells are you alive? I ordered..."
"Ordered the maester to dispose of me?" the youth interrupted, his voice ringing with pure hatred. "Well, as it turns out, not everyone is as callous and heartless a child-murderer as you. The old maester proved too soft for such filthy work. He gave me to those who know the price of child's life."
Daeron inhaled sharply, struggling to compose himself. His world was collapsing. Everything he had built, peace, legitimacy, order, could be burned away by this single shadow from the past.
"So? What now? Will you kill me in my own bed?" He tried to speak firmly, but his voice shook.
The youth suddenly laughed. It was a clear, almost melodic laugh that sounded macabre in the silence of the night chambers.
"Kill you? Oh, gods, no. I am not a kinslayer. I will not become like you, Grandsire. I am not here to relieve you of your pathetic life."
"Then for what?"
The boy leaned in close to the King’s ear, his hot breath stinging the skin.
"I am here to show you what you deprived yourself of."
In that instant, the walls of the room seemed to vibrate. A deep, low growl, rising from the very foundations of the castle, pierced the air. It was not the sound of an animal; it was the sound of the elements themselves.
From the darkness above the balcony, where the night sky met the stone of the tower, a massive head emerged. Scales shimmered in the hearth light—coal-black with glints of molten gold. The creature's eyes, large as shields, burned with an inner fire. Heavy breath billowed from the dragon’s nostrils, bringing the scent of sulfur and charred meat.
Daeron, seized by primal terror, backed away, tripped over the edge of a heavy rug, and fell. He didn't even try to stand, merely crawling back on his elbows, unable to tear his eyes away from the creature he had previously seen only on the yellowed pages of chronicles.
"A dragon..." he whispered. "It's a bloody dragon..."
The youth didn't even flinch. He stood with his back to the monster, and it seemed to submit to his very presence. The boy slowly crouched before the fallen King.
"I am here so that you may see what you could have had," the youth’s voice became soft and poisonous. "If not for your fear of what people would say. If not for your fear of the child of your sons, you wouldn't be trembling on the floor right now. You wouldn't be remembered as 'Daeron the Good'..."
He spat the word "Good" with such loathing, as if it were a piece of rotting meat.
"The world would have remembered you as the King under whose reign the dragons returned. No Blackfyre would have dared raise his head. No lord would have dared challenge your laws. You would have held the world in your fist, Your Grace. But you chose the path of a coward. You chose a maester’s knife over the majesty of your blood."
The youth stood up, looking down at the King from his full height. His silhouette against the backdrop of the gargantuan dragon head looked like the embodiment of ancient Valyria rising from the ashes.
"You will pay for this. Perhaps not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. My revenge is not to spill your blood, but to ensure that every day until your death, you know: you yourself destroyed the future of your House. And when the time comes, I will be the last thing you see in your life."
Leaving the King on the floor, the youth turned and stepped lightly, almost weightlessly, onto the balcony. The dragon let out a short sound, like a roll of thunder, and lowered its head, allowing the boy to mount. The youth sat upon the beast as naturally as if he had been born in the saddle.
Before the massive wings cut through the night air, the boy cast one final look over his shoulder.
"The only thing I agree with the Blackfyres on is the refusal to share a name with you. In case you wish to curse me in your prayers, I will give you my name. Brightflame. My name is Aerion Brightflame."
With that word, the dragon pushed off from the parapet. A powerful gust of air extinguished the last candles in the chambers, leaving Daeron II Targaryen in total darkness, to the sound of the distant beating of wings carrying his greatest fear and his greatest lost hope into the night sky of King’s Landing.