Chapter Text
Legends claim that Old Valyria was not destroyed by the eruption of the Fourteen Flames alone, but by the dark sorceries of the Seven Gods of Westeros, who feared the bond between dragon and dragonlord and cursed the land in wrath and envy.
Some say the Andals feared the might of the dragons and the power the Valyrians wielded through blood and flame. Others believe the gods themselves feared what Valyria would one day become.
Before the Doom fell upon the Freehold, the Fourteen Gods and Goddesses of Valyria sent dragon dreams to every known dreamer of dragon blood, desperate to save their people from the coming destruction.
Most ignored the warnings. Only two great families answered the call. One fled to Dragonstone, where their descendants would one day unite the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros beneath a single crown.
The other vanished across the seas to an unknown land, their fate lost to history. Yet before the Doom consumed Valyria in fire and ash, a final prophecy was spoken: When two sisters born of dragon blood awaken the land left in ruin, they shall unite with a third and bind both Westeros and Essos beneath one banner.
Not one crown…
But three.
The story begins as any other. With birth.
On Dragonstone, upon the coast of the Narrow Sea, a young princess consort lay within her birthing bed, struggling as all women do to bring forth new life in the hope of a son.
Outside the stone walls, dragons both large and small roared just as fiercely as the storm that ravaged the coast. Five men stood waiting within the hall as the woman's cries echoed through the chambers.
Then silence. Not the silence of death, but of relief. One midwife stepped into the hall, a bundle cradled carefully within her arms. “My princes,” she announced softly, “Princess Aemma has given birth to a daughter. She has been named Daenys.”
With that, Viserys took hold of his firstborn child. Though not a son, she was immediately loved.
Then the cries within the chamber began once more. A second midwife hurried from the room, quickly ushering the first back inside as murmurs spread through the hall.
“She is giving birth again,” the woman breathed in surprise. “There is a second child.” The cries continued for another two hours until at last they changed into the sharp cry of a newborn babe. The same midwife who had first brought forth Daenys stepped into the hall once more, this time carrying a bundle wrapped in Targaryen red and Arryn blue.
“Another daughter, my princes,” the woman announced. “This one the princess consort has named Rhaenyra.” No sooner had the second daughter been placed into her grandfather's arms than another infant's cry echoed from within the chamber.
At last, a third babe was brought forth for the waiting men to meet. The midwife looked near exhausted, her cheeks flushed from the long hours within the birthing chamber, yet wonder still filled her eyes. “The princess consort has brought forth a third daughter, my princes,” she announced softly. “She has been named Visenya.”
For a long moment, silence filled the hall. Not disappointment nor anger, but stunned disbelief.
Three daughters.
Three healthy babes born from a single labor.
Such a thing was rare enough amongst common folk, rarer still amongst dragonlords. Viserys stared at the child cradled within the woman's arms before a slow smile spread across his face. “Three,” Daemon breathed beside him, equal parts amused and astonished. “Gods help Dragonstone.”
A tired laugh escaped Baelon at that, though pride shone plainly within the older prince's eyes. “The blood of Old Valyria runs strong within them.”
Outside, thunder cracked across the skies with enough force to shake the stone walls of Dragonstone itself. The dragons roared once more, louder now, their cries echoing across the island and out over the Narrow Sea. Then, somewhere deep within the Dragonmont, another sound answered them.
A crack. Soft. Barely heard above the storm. Yet every dragon upon Dragonstone suddenly fell silent. Then came the roar of Balerion, the Black Dread.
The sound thundered across Dragonstone and out over the seas beyond, so deep and powerful that many upon the island swore later they had felt it within their very bones. Far across Westeros, men would one day claim they had heard the ancient dragon's cry carried upon the winds that night.
A heavy thud soon followed, strong enough to shake the keep itself. Balerion was not alone. His mate, Draxteronxia, descended beside him through the storm-dark skies, every bit as immense and awe-inspiring as the Black Dread himself. Yet where Balerion was cloaked in scales black as midnight and possessed eerie red eyes that glowed like embers within a dying fire, Draxteronxia was his opposite in every way.
Her scales gleamed like polished silver beneath flashes of lightning, turning her into a living beacon amidst the darkness of the storm. Brilliant blue eyes shone from her massive head, seeming almost to glow against the rain and thunder that surrounded her.
Together the two ancient dragons landed upon the black sands below Dragonstone. And the island itself seemed to hold its breath. When the men rushed toward the outer courtyard overlooking the black sands below, they found Balerion standing amidst smoke and storm, his great wings half unfurled against the rain. Before him, laid carefully within the sands, rested three dragon eggs.
Two were black as midnight. One carried a deep blue sheen beneath the torchlight while the other shimmered faintly silver. The third gleamed a brilliant gold, bright even beneath the darkened skies. For perhaps the first time in years, the old dragon did not appear monstrous. He appeared watchful.
Almost reverent.
None dared approach until Balerion stepped back from the eggs, releasing a low rumbling growl before turning his massive head toward the tower chambers where the newborn princesses rested. “It cannot be,” one dragonkeeper whispered in awe. “The Black Dread has chosen.”
Viserys remained upon the balcony while Daemon was the first to move forward, reckless as ever. Rhaeger and Aegon quickly followed behind him as rain lashed against the stone around them.
Together, the three brothers carefully lifted the eggs from the warm black sands and carried them into the keep.
Within the royal chamber sat the cradle prepared for the newborn babes. Large enough to hold all three girls side by side. Large enough still for the dragon eggs to be placed gently beside them.
Almost as though someone had known there would be three. The moment the eggs settled beside the sleeping infants, the storm outside began to calm. Deep within the cradle, the black egg streaked with silver gave the faintest crack. Then the second black egg cracked, followed moments later by the third.
The sound drew every eye within the chamber toward the cradle as thin fractures spread across the ancient shells. Tiny cries, sharp and unfamiliar, echoed softly through the room.
And from within the eggs, three dragonlings emerged. Two were black as midnight. One carried a deep blue sheen beneath the torchlight while the other shimmered faintly silver. The third gleamed a brilliant gold, silver shining softly between its scales like threads of moonlight woven through molten metal.
For a moment the hatchlings simply blinked at the world around them, their tiny wings twitching as they took their first breaths beneath the watchful eyes of dragonlords and kings. Then instinct took hold.
The first hatchling, born from the black egg streaked with blue, pulled itself free with surprising strength. Dark scales shimmered with a faint blue sheen as the tiny creature stumbled across the blankets toward the eldest of the newborn princesses. Curling itself against the babe’s side, it released a soft chirping sound before settling beside her as though it had always belonged there.
“The gods…” one of the midwives whispered breathlessly. The second dragonling, hatched from the black egg touched with silver, soon followed. Black scales glimmered beneath the candlelight with a subtle silver sheen while molten silver eyes blinked open for the first time. Unlike the first hatchling, this one moved slowly, carefully, before finally curling itself beside the youngest of the three babes.
Then came the third.
The golden hatchling burst free from its shell in a spray of broken fragments, gold-and-silver scales gleaming brilliantly within the chamber’s firelight. Tiny wings stretched wide as it let out an indignant squeal before crawling toward the second-born child. Without hesitation, the dragonling pressed itself against her side, golden tail curling possessively around her tiny arm.
Silence consumed the chamber. Three newborn princesses. Three newly hatched dragons. Never before had such a thing been seen upon Dragonstone. Perhaps not even in Old Valyria itself.
Viserys stared down at the cradle in stunned wonder while Daemon laughed softly beside him, disbelief and excitement warring plainly upon his face.
“Well,” Daemon murmured, unable to pull his eyes from the hatchlings, “that cannot possibly be a sign of anything troublesome.”
The other men, and even the newly exhausted mother within the bed, looked at Daemon as though he himself had suddenly grown scales and breathed dragonfire before laughter finally filled the chamber. Warm, tired, and relieved.
Aemma rested back against the pillows, exhaustion plain upon her face while the three newborn princesses lay sleeping within the oversized cradle beside her bed. Curled against them were the newly hatched dragonlings, each nestled protectively beside the child they had chosen.
The princess consort stared at the sight before her in quiet wonder. Her silver-gold hair clung damply to her brow, yet her violet eyes shone brighter than the candles burning throughout the chamber.
“Daenys, Rhaenyra, and Visenya,” Aemma whispered softly, her gaze moving between each of her daughters in turn. “Welcome to the House of the Dragon.”
Outside, though the storm itself had begun to calm, the dragons of Dragonstone had one final thing to say before retreating to their dens for the night.
Firelight suddenly illuminated the darkened skies beyond the Tower of the Conqueror. Caraxes’ crimson flames tore across the heavens first, sharp and fierce as blood upon steel. Wyldfyre answered with emerald-touched fire that painted the clouds in ghostly green. Goldwing’s molten gold flames soon joined them while Starwing’s brighter silver-blue fire shimmered against the lingering storm clouds like starlight itself.
Then came Vhagar.
The ancient she-dragon’s fire engulfed the skies above Dragonstone in a blaze so immense that the black waters of the Narrow Sea reflected it like liquid flame. From within the cradle, the three hatchlings answered with tiny cries of their own.
And high above the castle, perched silently upon the smoking cliffs of the Dragonmont, Balerion watched the keep with ancient eyes before finally turning toward his resting place once more.
The storm had not yet reached King’s Landing, though dark clouds had begun gathering above Blackwater Bay by the time the raven arrived from Dragonstone.
The bird came soaked from rain and sea spray, snapping angrily as the maester removed the message tube from its leg. Within moments the parchment was carried through the halls of the Red Keep toward the chambers of the Hand of the King.
Otto Hightower broke the seal in silence.
The room around him remained still save for the crackling hearth and the distant sounds of court life echoing faintly through the castle halls. His eyes moved slowly across the hastily written words.
Princess Consort Aemma delivered of children during the storm. Dragons roared throughout the night. Balerion seen descending from the Dragonmont. Three eggs laid upon the black sands below Dragonstone. Otto’s brow darkened.
“Three eggs?” he murmured quietly. The maester standing nearby shifted uneasily. “That is what was written, my lord Hand.”
Otto read the parchment once more. There was no mention of the children themselves. No names. No number. No mention of whether the babes or mother had survived the birthing bed. Only dragons. Outside the windows thunder rolled faintly over the bay. Otto folded the parchment carefully between his fingers.
Baelon already had heirs. Strong heirs. Dragonriders. Viserys with Goldwing. Daemon with Caraxes. Aegon with the beast called Wyldfyre. Dragonstone had become increasingly consumed with old Valyrian customs these past years. Ancient rites. Dragonkeeper traditions. Prophecies whispered behind closed doors.
And now this.
Storms. Dragons roaring through the night. Balerion himself descending from the Dragonmont after years rarely seen beyond his resting place. Whatever had occurred upon Dragonstone, Otto knew one thing with certainty. If Aemma Arryn had delivered a son amidst such omens, the realm would rally behind the child before he had even learned to walk. A prince born beneath dragonfire and prophecy would become more than heir. He would become symbol.
And symbols were dangerous things. “The king has not yet been informed?” Otto asked. “No, my lord. The raven came directly to you.” “Good.”Otto rose from his chair and crossed toward the fire, the orange glow casting long shadows across his face.
“The realm remembers Maegor.” His voice remained calm. Measured. “It remembers what unchecked dragonlords bring upon Westeros.”
The maester wisely said nothing.
For several long moments Otto simply stared into the flames before speaking again. “Too much power gathering in one branch of House Targaryen would threaten the stability of the realm.” Again silence. Then finally Otto turned away from the hearth.
“Quietly,” he said, “I want to know who travels between King’s Landing and Dragonstone. Every ship. Every messenger. Every servant entering or leaving the castle.” “My lord?” “If a prince has been born upon Dragonstone, I would know the truth before the realm begins making legends of him.”
The maester bowed his head carefully. “As you command.” Otto’s gaze drifted once more toward the storm-darkened windows overlooking Blackwater Bay. Far away across the sea, dragons had roared through the night.
And for the first time in many years, Otto Hightower found himself uneasy at the sound. Meanwhile, back upon Dragonstone, the small royal family had at last retired for the night. The three newborn princesses and their dragonlings had been carefully moved into the nursery beside the royal chambers, watched over by servants, dragonkeepers, and no less than two anxious midwives who still looked half convinced they had somehow fallen into one of Old Valyria’s legends.
At last the castle itself had begun to quiet.
The storms beyond the island softened into distant rain while the dragons settled within their dens throughout the Dragonmont. Even the hatchlings, after much chirping and restless crawling about the cradle, had finally curled themselves around their chosen babes and fallen asleep.
Within the royal chambers, maids and attendants moved quietly about the room changing bloodied linens for fresh bedding while helping the exhausted princess consort and her husband into their night clothes. The scent of smoke, salt, and rain still lingered faintly within the air even after the fires had been stoked anew.
Only once the chamber had finally emptied of servants did Viserys allow himself to fully settle beside his wife within the bed.
For several long moments neither spoke.
Aemma rested heavily against the pillows, exhaustion etched plainly across her features, though a small smile still lingered upon her lips. Viserys reached for her hand almost immediately, pressing a gentle kiss against her knuckles as though reassuring himself she still remained there beside him.
“You gave me three daughters in a single night,” he murmured softly, disbelief and wonder still present within his voice. “The maesters will speak of this for centuries.”
Aemma let out a tired laugh. “Let them. They were not the ones forced to bring them into the world.”
That earned another soft laugh from Viserys as he leaned closer, resting his forehead briefly against hers. Elsewhere within the castle, the remaining brothers had likewise retired for the evening. Daemon returned to his chambers still grinning like a man who had witnessed the gods themselves descend from the heavens, while Aegon disappeared toward his own rooms muttering that Dragonstone was certain to become unbearable now that three dragon-bonded princesses had arrived at once.
Their father, Prince Baelon, had long since departed for Aegon’s Holdfast, the ancient chambers otherwise known throughout the castle simply as the Heir’s Rooms.
Yet despite the late hour, sleep did not come easily to Dragonstone that night. For deep within the nursery, the black hatchling curled beside the eldest princess suddenly lifted its head toward the windows overlooking the sea.
Blue-sheened scales shimmered softly within the darkness as tiny molten eyes blinked open. And somewhere far across Blackwater Bay, another storm was beginning to gather. Far away from Dragonstone’s warmth and celebration, the Red Keep remained cold and watchful beneath the darkened skies of King’s Landing.
Within the Tower of the Hand, Otto Hightower sat alone beside the dying fire of his chambers while rain lashed softly against the narrow windows overlooking Blackwater Bay. The message from Dragonstone remained spread across the table before him, the parchment now creased from how many times he had reread its contents throughout the night.
Three eggs. Balerion descending from the Dragonmont. Dragons roaring across the island like creatures possessed. Otto had spent enough years amidst Targaryens to understand what such things became in the minds of men. Omens. Prophecy. Divine favor.
Danger.
His fingers tapped once against the arm of his chair before he finally rose to his feet. “The realm has bled enough beneath dragonfire,” he murmured quietly into the empty chamber. “It will not bleed again.” The words sounded almost prayerful. A soft knock soon came at the door.
“Enter.”
Two men stepped into the room, neither dressed in noble silks nor household colors. One wore the rough leathers of a harbor captain while the other kept his hood drawn low enough to shadow most of his face. Men forgettable enough to disappear within the streets of King’s Landing. Precisely the sort Otto preferred for work such as this.
Neither bowed deeply. Wise enough not to draw attention to themselves even here. “My lord Hand,” the harbor captain greeted carefully. Otto studied the pair for several long moments before speaking. “Word has arrived from Dragonstone,” he said evenly. “A child has reportedly been born amidst… troubling omens.”
The hooded man remained silent while the captain frowned slightly. “A prince?” “That,” Otto answered calmly, “remains uncertain.” Yet even speaking the uncertainty aloud did little to ease the knot tightening within his chest. Too many signs surrounded the birth already. Too many whispers of dragons and prophecy.
“If the child is male,” Otto continued, “the realm may soon find itself threatened by forces best left buried with Old Valyria.” The hooded figure finally spoke, voice rough from years of smoke and cheap ale. “And what would you have done, my lord?”
Otto’s gaze shifted toward the storm-darkened windows overlooking the bay. Somewhere beyond the black waters stood Dragonstone, ancient seat of House Targaryen and home to more dragons than Westeros had seen in generations.
When he spoke again his voice remained calm. Controlled.
“I would have this… ill omen dealt with quietly before the realm begins mistaking it for destiny.” Silence settled heavily within the chamber. Then slowly, the hooded man nodded.
And far across the sea, within the nursery of Dragonstone, three tiny dragonlings slept curled beside the princesses they had chosen. The castle itself had fallen silent at last. Rain whispered softly against the stone walls while moonlight filtered faintly through the narrow windows overlooking the sea. The hearth crackled low within the corner, casting golden light across the oversized cradle where the newborn princesses slept bundled together beneath thick blankets of crimson and black.
Then suddenly, the eyes of the eldest princess snapped open.
Beside her, the black dragonling with the blue sheen lifted its head at the exact same moment. The hatchling released no cry, no hiss. It merely stared toward the darkened windows overlooking the Narrow Sea, tiny wings twitching once against its sides. Within the cradle, Princess Daenys watched the darkness in silence.
Lavender eyes, no more than an hour old, seemed far too knowing for any newborn child. The soft innocence expected of infancy was absent for only the briefest of moments, replaced instead by something ancient. Watchful.
As though she listened to voices carried upon the wind itself. The dragonling pressed closer against her side. Then the infant’s tiny brow furrowed. A soft sound escaped her lips. Not quite a cry. Not quite a coo. Almost… a warning.
Elsewhere within the cradle, the golden-and-silver hatchling beside Rhaenyra stirred restlessly while the silver-sheened black dragonling curled protectively tighter around Visenya.
Outside, high upon the cliffs of the Dragonmont, Balerion’s massive head slowly rose from where the ancient dragon rested amongst smoke and stone.
The Black Dread stared toward the nursery tower overlooking the sea. And for the first time in many years, the old dragon did not close his eyes again. High above the realms of men, beyond cloud and storm, beyond even the reach of dragons, the Fourteen Flames watched in silence.
The celestial realm of the dragon gods burned bright with rivers of molten gold and silver flame flowing endlessly through the heavens themselves. Great dragons larger than mountains rested amongst stars and smoke, their scales shimmering with the colors of creation, destruction, prophecy, and death.
There the gods watched the mortal world below. They watched Dragonstone. They watched the three newborn princesses sleeping beside the hatchlings that had chosen them.
And they watched the darkness already gathering within the hearts of men. Upon a throne carved from blackened crystal and glowing embers sat Tessarion, Goddess of Foresight, of Dreams, and Prophecy. Vast silver-blue wings curled behind her as glowing eyes fixed themselves upon the mortal realm far beneath the heavens.
“The prophecy begins,” Tessarion whispered softly to the gathered Dragon Flames, as the gods of Valyria named themselves. “The children who will unite the lands of men have been born.”
Around her the gods shifted. Fire rolled across scales older than the world itself while stars trembled within the endless skies of the celestial realm. “But how,” Tessarion continued quietly, sorrow touching her voice, “do we protect them from those who would harm them out of fear?”
A low growl echoed through the heavens. Vhagar, Goddess of War and Wrath, unfurled immense bronze wings as flames curled from between sharpened teeth. “Then let those who threaten them burn.”
“You would answer every danger with fire,” Meleys, Goddess of Wisdom and Strategy, replied calmly from where she rested amongst silver-lit pillars of stone. “That is why mortals fear us still.”
“They fear because they forget,” Caraxes snarled. “Men united beneath dragons once conquered the world.” “And nearly destroyed it,” murmured gentle Tyraxes, Goddess of Hunt, Fertility, and Harvest. At the edge of the celestial gathering another figure remained silent.
Balerion, God of Death, Transformation, and the Afterlife, watched the mortal world below with burning red eyes untouched by pity or mercy. Beside him stood Onixa, Goddess of Sorcery and Shadows, her dark wings half hidden within drifting smoke.
“The Hand moves already,” Onixa said softly, shadows twisting around her claws as images formed within the smoke. A tower. A fire. A man clad in green studying parchment by candlelight.
Otto Hightower.
Draxtar, God of Life and Creation, lowered his great head thoughtfully. “The children are barely born, and already men seek their deaths.” “Such is the way of mortals,” Syrax said sadly. “They fear what shines brightest.”
At last Tessarion rose from her throne of prophecy-flame, silver-blue fire swirling beneath her claws. “Then we shall guide them as we once guided the dreamers before the Doom.” Her great gaze settled upon the sleeping figure of Daenys far below. “The eldest already hears our whispers.”
Far beneath the heavens, within the nursery upon Dragonstone, Princess Daenys stirred softly in her sleep as the blue-sheened hatchling beside her lifted its head toward the stars. The family upon Dragonstone was only just beginning to settle into something resembling routine. Each morning the castle awoke to the soft cries of the three newborn princesses accompanied by the impatient chirping of the dragonlings demanding food alongside their chosen riders.
What had once been a quiet stronghold of stone and smoke had quickly transformed into something far livelier. Servants hurried endlessly through the halls carrying blankets, warmed milk, fresh linens, and buckets of meat for the ever-hungry hatchlings while dragonkeepers argued amongst themselves over customs and records, unable to agree whether such close bonding between newborn dragons and babes had ever occurred before.
Aemma, despite the exhaustion lingering heavily within her body after the difficult birth, refused to leave the raising of her daughters solely to nurses and servants. She had never been the sort of woman content to remain distant from those she loved. Each morning she insisted upon feeding the babes herself while Viserys sat beside her looking no less tired yet impossibly proud all the same.
The dragonlings, however, quickly proved themselves far more troublesome than the infants. Syrax was by far the loudest of the three. The gold-and-silver hatchling chirped constantly whenever separated from Rhaenyra for more than a few moments and had already developed a habit of climbing over her sisters in search of attention.
Valyria remained calmer, though no less possessive. The silver-sheened black dragonling watched nearly everyone who approached the cradle with unsettling focus, often positioning herself between Visenya and whichever unfortunate servant had wandered too close.
Shadowwing was perhaps the strangest of all.
The blue-sheened hatchling rarely made noise unless Daenys herself cried first. More than once servants entered the nursery only to find both princess and dragon awake and staring silently toward the windows overlooking the sea as though listening for something carried upon the winds beyond Dragonstone.
It unsettled nearly everyone who witnessed it. Everyone except Daemon. “Oh, she’s my favorite already,” Daemon declared one morning while leaning carelessly against the nursery doorway as Shadowwing glared suspiciously at him from within the cradle. “She hissed at you yesterday,” Aemma reminded dryly from where she sat feeding Visenya.
Daemon grinned. “Exactly.”
The king and queen had, of course, sent ravens upon learning of the miraculous births and hatchings upon Dragonstone. Alongside their letters came ships bearing supplies difficult to acquire upon the island itself. Fine cloth for the princesses, fresh medicines for Aemma’s recovery, preserved fruits, candles, oils, carved cradles from King’s Landing craftsmen, and enough meat to satisfy the ever-growing appetites of the three dragonlings. For nearly a week the shipments arrived without incident.
Until today.
The morning itself had begun peacefully enough. Rain drifted softly against the castle walls while servants moved quietly through the halls attempting not to wake the princesses too early. Within the nursery, Rhaenyra fussed loudly while Syrax chirped back at her in equal outrage, the golden hatchling seemingly convinced she too was owed breakfast immediately.
Aemma laughed softly from where she sat near the hearth. “That one has inherited Targaryen patience.” “Gods help us all,” Amanda muttered under her breath while attempting to keep Valyria from climbing out of the cradle again. The calm did not last long.
A knock soon sounded against the nursery doors before one of Dragonstone’s household guards stepped carefully inside. “Your Graces,” the man greeted with a bow toward Viserys and Aemma. “The supply ship from King’s Landing has arrived.”
Viserys glanced up from where Daenys rested sleeping against his chest. “And?” The guard hesitated briefly. “There is… an additional servant amongst them, my prince. She claims to have been sent by King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne to assist in the care of the newborn princesses.”
At once Shadowwing’s head snapped upward.
The blue-sheened hatchling released a low hiss from within the cradle, tiny wings spreading slightly against her sides. Beside her, Daenys stirred awake almost immediately.
The entire room fell silent.
Valyria lifted her head next, molten silver eyes fixing themselves upon the doorway while Syrax gave an uneasy chirp before crawling closer toward Rhaenyra. Daemon straightened slowly from where he lounged against the far wall.
“That,” he said quietly, “does not seem ominous at all.”
Aemma’s smile faded as she looked toward the restless hatchlings. In the short days since the dragons had bonded with the girls, everyone within Dragonstone had already learned one thing.
The hatchlings sensed things long before humans did. And at that moment, all three dragons looked deeply unhappy. Prince Baelon spoke before anyone else within the nursery could respond. “Show her to the throne room,” he ordered calmly, though the sharpness within his gaze betrayed his unease. “I shall be there shortly.”
The guard bowed immediately. “Yes, my prince.”
Once the man departed, silence settled heavily across the chamber once more. Only the soft crackling of the hearth and the restless chirping of the hatchlings disturbed the quiet.
Baelon’s eyes moved slowly toward the cradle where the three dragons remained visibly agitated. Shadowwing continued staring toward the closed doors with unblinking intensity while Valyria had positioned herself protectively in front of Visenya. Even Syrax, normally loud and energetic, had gone unusually still against Rhaenyra’s side.
The older prince frowned deeply. “Has this happened before?” he asked. “No,” Aemma admitted softly, pulling Rhaenyra slightly closer against her chest. “They have startled at loud noises or unfamiliar servants entering too quickly, but…”
“But not like this,” Viserys finished quietly.
Daemon pushed himself away from the wall, silver hair falling loosely across his brow as his expression sharpened into something far more serious than before.
“Perhaps the dragons simply dislike unexpected guests.” Though his tone remained light, one hand had already drifted toward Dark Sister resting at his hip.
Amanda noticed the movement immediately. “So do you,” she muttered. That earned the faintest smirk from Daemon before his attention returned toward the door.
Baelon stood silent for another moment, studying the uneasy hatchlings carefully. The prince had spent his life around dragons. He knew better than most that creatures such as these rarely reacted without reason.
At last he looked toward Viserys. “Keep the nursery guarded,” Baelon instructed. “No one enters without your leave or Aemma’s.” Viserys nodded immediately. “And if this servant truly comes from my father and mother,” Baelon continued, “then there shall be no issue.”
But the look within his eyes suggested he did not fully believe his own words. Without another word, the prince turned and strode from the nursery toward the throne room of Dragonstone while behind him three hatchlings watched the doorway with quiet, growing distrust.
Viserys watched his father leave the nursery before slowly turning back toward the others gathered within the chamber. Daenys rested quietly within his arms while Shadowwing remained curled protectively across the prince’s lap, blue-sheened scales shimmering softly within the firelight.
“I think Daemon is right,” Viserys admitted at last, unease creeping plainly into his voice. “This does not sound good.” Aemma frowned immediately at the seriousness within her husband’s tone. “Why would grandfather and grandmother send a servant to help care for the girls,” Viserys continued quietly, “when they already know Dragonstone is fully staffed?”
No one answered immediately.
Because there was no good answer.
Amanda was the first to speak. “Queen Alysanne would have written to Aemma directly if she truly believed more nurses or attendants were needed.” “And grandmother does not send strangers into royal nurseries without warning,” Rhaenys added sharply from near the windows overlooking the sea. “Especially not after dragon hatchings.”
Daemon’s expression darkened further at that. “She may not have sent anyone at all,” he said bluntly. At once the room grew colder.
Aemma instinctively tightened her hold around Rhaenyra while Visenya stirred restlessly within Amanda’s arms. Within the cradle, Valyria released a low warning growl while Syrax chirped nervously beside her.
Viserys looked down toward Daenys just as the infant’s lavender eyes opened. For several long moments the newborn princess stared silently toward the nursery doors. Beside her, Shadowwing’s tiny wings twitched uneasily.
Then Daenys frowned.
A newborn’s expression should not have carried such clear displeasure. Yet somehow it did. Daemon noticed it immediately and let out a soft laugh beneath his breath. “There it is again,” he murmured. Aemma looked between her daughter and the hatchling curled beside her. “What?”
“That look,” Daemon answered quietly, no amusement remaining within his voice now. “As though she already knows something the rest of us do not.”
The room fell silent once more.
Then, from somewhere deeper within Dragonstone’s halls, the distant roar of Vhagar echoed through the castle stone.
And every dragonling within the nursery hissed at once. A deeper, rumbling roar suddenly echoed across Dragonstone from high within the Dragonmont itself.
Balerion.
The sound rolled through the castle like distant thunder, shaking stone walls and rattling the nursery windows hard enough to make the candle flames flicker wildly. It was not the roar of hunger nor challenge.
It was displeasure. Every person within the chamber froze. Then another roar answered him. Vhagar’s furious cry rose from the cliffs below the castle while Caraxes shrieked sharply enough to make even seasoned dragonkeepers flinch. Goldwing’s roar soon followed, deeper and more controlled, while farther across the island Starwing answered with a piercing cry that echoed out over the Narrow Sea itself.
Within moments the entire island seemed alive with dragon voices. The dragons of Dragonstone roared together, their voices echoing across the island and out over the storm-tossed waters of the Narrow Sea.
One by one they gave voice to the warning, their cries rising above the wind and thunder as though the dragons themselves sensed something that men could not.
The last to roar was Draxteronxia. Her cry was every bit as powerful as Balerion's. Every bit as unsettling. Where Balerion's thunderous roar sounded like the wrath of an ancient king, Draxteronxia's carried a sharp, haunting quality that seemed to pierce straight through stone, flesh, and bone alike.
Together their voices rolled across Dragonstone like a warning from the age of Old Valyria itself. And every dragon upon the island answered them. Not in celebration.
In warning.
The hatchlings reacted instantly. Syrax scrambled clumsily over the blankets toward Rhaenyra while Valyria planted herself squarely before Visenya with wings spread wide despite her tiny size. Shadowwing, however, remained unnervingly still beside Daenys.
The blue-sheened dragonling simply stared toward the nursery doors with molten eyes unblinking. Then the tiny hatchling released a low hiss. The sound was small. Weak compared to the roars shaking the island. Yet somehow it unsettled the room more than all the others combined.
Daemon slowly straightened, all traces of humor now gone from his face. “Well,” he muttered darkly, hand settling fully upon the hilt of Dark Sister this time, “I think it is safe to say the dragons do not approve of our guest.”
Far below the castle, servants throughout Dragonstone had begun stopping in the halls, fear spreading rapidly as dragon after dragon cried out across the island. Dragonkeepers rushed toward the outer courtyards while guards moved for weapons without even realizing they had done so.
Because every man and woman upon Dragonstone knew one truth above all others. When dragons roared together like this… Something was very wrong. The throne room of Dragonstone had rarely felt warm, yet now the ancient chamber seemed colder still as the roars of dragons echoed beyond the stone walls. Torches flickered violently within their sconces while guards stationed along the room’s edges exchanged increasingly uneasy glances.
At the center of the hall stood the newest arrival from King’s Landing. The woman appeared plain enough at first glance. Brown hair hidden beneath a servant’s hood, simple traveling clothes damp from sea spray, hands clasped tightly before her. Yet the longer Baelon studied her, the more wrong the entire situation felt.
Not fearful enough.
Most newcomers arriving upon Dragonstone reacted poorly to dragons roaring from every direction. This woman merely stood stiffly still. Like someone attempting very hard not to panic. Baelon slowly descended the steps of the throne dais while behind him several Dragonstone guards rested hands upon sword hilts.
“You claim my father and mother sent you?” Baelon asked evenly.
“Yes, my prince,” the woman answered quickly. “Queen Alysanne heard the princess consort had delivered children and feared Dragonstone’s servants may become overwhelmed caring for three babes at once.” Another deafening roar echoed overhead. The woman flinched this time. Baelon noticed. “So my mother sent only you?” The servant hesitated for half a heartbeat too long. “Yes, my prince.”
Suspicion darkened Baelon’s features. Queen Alysanne did nothing alone where royal children were concerned. Had she truly sent aid, she would have sent wet nurses, guards, maesters, gifts, letters. Not one frightened servant arriving unannounced after dragons across the island began roaring like beasts scenting blood.
Then the great doors behind Baelon burst open.
Daemon strode into the throne room with purpose sharp enough to cut steel, Dark Sister hanging openly at his side. Behind him came Viserys, no longer carrying Daenys yet looking no less tense than his brother.
“The dragons are still roaring,” Viserys announced immediately. “Every single one of them.” At once the servant paled. Daemon noticed instantly. And smiled. Slowly. Dangerously. “Well now,” Daemon murmured, silver hair catching torchlight as he studied the trembling woman. “That is interesting.” The heavy doors of the throne room opened once more, though this time no guard or servant entered in haste with drawn steel or fearful eyes. Instead, a gray-robed maester hurried into the chamber clutching a sealed parchment tightly within his hands.
“Your Graces,” the maester announced breathlessly as he bowed before Baelon and the gathered royals. “A raven has just arrived from King’s Landing.” At once the room fell silent once more. Even the servant standing before the throne seemed to tense. Baelon extended his hand immediately. “From whom?”
“The king and queen themselves, my prince.” That alone caused the unease within the chamber to sharpen. Because if King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne had only now sent word… Then who exactly had sent the servant?
Baelon broke the seal without hesitation while Daemon slowly turned his gaze toward the woman standing in the center of the throne room. The prince’s expression had gone frighteningly calm.
Beside him, Viserys looked equally unsettled. The dragons outside had not stopped roaring. Baelon’s eyes moved quickly across the parchment. Then slowly… his expression darkened. “No servant was sent from King’s Landing,” he said coldly. The room erupted instantly. Guards surged forward while the woman’s face drained completely of color. One of the Dragonstone knights seized her arm before she could move more than a single step backward. “I-I can explain—”
“Can you?” Daemon interrupted softly. The tone itself was more dangerous than shouting would have been. Dark Sister slid partially free from its sheath with a quiet hiss of Valyrian steel. Outside, Balerion roared again. The entire castle shook.
Within the throne room the disguised servant finally broke, panic flooding across her face as tears filled her eyes. “I was only told to bring something into the nursery,” she cried desperately as guards restrained her tighter. “I swear it! I did not know they were princesses!”
Silence. Absolute silence. Then Viserys stepped forward slowly, horror dawning across his face. “You thought they were boys,” he realized quietly. The woman immediately looked as though she regretted speaking at all. Daemon, however, began to laugh. Not with humor.
With fury.
“Bind her tightly,” Baelon ordered, his voice cold enough to still the entire chamber. “Place her aboard a ship under heavy guard bound for King’s Landing.” The servant collapsed fully into terrified sobs as the Dragonstone guards seized her arms and forced her toward the doors. “My prince, please—”
“You entered my home under false pretenses,” Baelon interrupted sharply. “You approached my grandchildren’s nursery while carrying out another man’s orders.” His gaze hardened further. “You are fortunate I choose justice over dragonfire.”
At that, the woman went deathly pale.
The guards dragged her from the throne room as her cries slowly faded into the distant halls beyond. Only once the doors slammed shut behind her did the silence within the chamber finally return. Outside, the dragons had begun to quiet, though low growls and distant rumbling roars still echoed across the island like lingering thunder.
Daemon stood near the base of the throne dais, Dark Sister still partially unsheathed within his hand. Violet eyes burned with barely restrained fury. “She admitted enough,” he said flatly. “No servant risks death infiltrating Dragonstone unless someone powerful promised protection.”
“Or demanded obedience,” Viserys answered quietly. Baelon looked down once more at the parchment from King’s Landing clenutched within his hand. His father’s message had been warm. Proud. Filled with congratulations for the birth of the girls and wonder at the hatching of dragons. Queen Alysanne herself had written nearly half the letter asking after Aemma’s health and demanding sketches of the hatchlings be sent immediately.
No servant had been mentioned. Not one. At last Baelon lifted his gaze toward his sons. “We return home,” he said. The words settled heavily within the chamber. Viserys frowned immediately. “Father?”
“If someone within King’s Landing believes they can move against our family before your daughters are even a fortnight old,” Baelon said grimly, “then I would very much like to discover who believes themselves bold enough to attempt it.”
Daemon’s mouth curved slowly into something far too sharp to be called a smile. “Oh, this should be entertaining.” “It will not,” Baelon answered immediately. “You will keep your temper under control while in court.” Daemon sheathed Dark Sister fully once more. “I make no promises.” That earned the faintest sigh from Viserys while Rhaenys quietly muttered, “At least he is honest.” Another distant roar echoed from the Dragonmont. Softer now. Watching. Waiting.
Baelon turned toward the towering windows overlooking the sea beyond Dragonstone. Somewhere across Blackwater Bay, someone had already moved against House Targaryen. Against newborn children. And for the first time in many years, the old warrior prince felt something dangerous beginning to stir beneath the calm surface of the realm.
Aemma, still holding Rhaenyra carefully against her chest, looked between the gathered members of the royal family. The warmth and peace Dragonstone had known these past days had vanished entirely, replaced now by quiet tension and growing distrust.
“How do we get the girls home?” she asked softly. “I will not leave them behind, not even with trusted servants.” At once the chamber fell silent. Because every person present understood exactly what she meant.
The triplets were no longer simply royal children. Someone had already attempted to reach them before they were even a fortnight old. Baelon’s expression softened slightly as he looked toward his gooddaughter and the tiny princess bundled securely within her arms. Syrax remained curled tightly beside Rhaenyra, the gold-and-silver hatchling watching the room with visible unease.
“You will not be separated from them,” Baelon assured her immediately. “But the sea crossing—” Viserys began carefully before stopping himself. Aemma’s gaze shifted toward her husband at once. “I crossed the Narrow Sea carrying three children, Viserys. I believe I can survive Blackwater Bay.” That earned the faintest twitch of amusement from Daemon despite the tension gripping the room.
“She does make a compelling argument.” Viserys ignored him completely. “The crossing itself is not my concern,” he admitted quietly. “If someone truly sent that woman…” “They may attempt something far less subtle next time,” Rhaenys finished grimly. Silence followed her words.
Then Daemon suddenly straightened slightly, silver brows lifting as though an obvious solution had only just occurred to him. “Well.” Everyone looked toward him warily. Daemon grinned. “We are dragonlords.”Baelon sighed immediately. “Daemon—”
“No, truly, hear me out,” the younger prince continued, entirely too pleased with himself. “Why in the seven hells would we place the girls aboard ships after someone already attempted to infiltrate Dragonstone?” That… admittedly gave the room pause. Daemon spread his hands dramatically. “Goldwing can carry Viserys and one of the girls. Aemma has Starwing. Vhagar can fly escort while Caraxes handles anything foolish enough to get too close.”
“And you assume the dragons will calmly allow the hatchlings to be separated during flight?” Amanda asked skeptically. At once every eye shifted toward the three dragonlings. Shadowwing had already climbed partially into Daenys’ blankets while Valyria remained stubbornly pressed against Visenya’s side. Syrax hissed indignantly the moment Rhaenyra was shifted slightly within Aemma’s arms. “…Fair point,” Daemon admitted. “They stay with their riders,” Aemma said immediately. “No arguments.”
“Gods save whoever must secure hatchlings to dragon saddles,” Rhaenys muttered beneath her breath. Daemon’s grin only widened. “Now this is beginning to sound entertaining.”
“Your definition of entertaining concerns me,” Viserys answered dryly. “It concerns everyone,” Amanda added. Outside, another low roar echoed from the Dragonmont, softer now yet no less watchful. Baelon turned slowly toward the towering windows overlooking the sea beyond Dragonstone. Somewhere across Blackwater Bay, someone had already moved against House Targaryen. Against newborn children.
And now those same children would return to King’s Landing surrounded not by ships… But by dragons.
By midday the dragons had taken to the skies.
The people of Dragonstone gathered along castle walls, courtyards, and the black sand shores below to watch the royal family depart. Smoke curled from the Dragonmont behind them while sea winds whipped cloaks and banners violently through the air as dragon after dragon rose into the heavens.
Vhagar led the formation.
Ancient and immense, the bronze queen of dragons cut through the skies with terrifying strength while Prince Baelon sat firmly within the saddle upon her back. Secured safely against his chest beneath layers of fur and cloth rested the youngest princess, Visenya, while nearby Valyria hissed furiously at every passing gust of wind as though personally offended by the entire journey.
Goldwing flew beside them, scales gleaming gold and silver beneath the midday sun. Princess Daenys slept soundly against Viserys' chest despite the rushing winds while Shadowwing remained secured close beside Goldwing's saddle. The blue-sheened hatchling watched the skies around them with unnerving stillness, tiny molten eyes seeming far too aware for a dragon barely days old.
Not far behind soared Starwing carrying Aemma and Princess Rhaenyra. The silver-blue dragon glided gracefully through the clouds while Syrax chirped constantly beside the saddle, the gold-and-silver hatchling clearly displeased by every moment she was not directly curled against her chosen rider.
Meleys flew alongside Starwing.
The Red Queen's scarlet scales flashed brilliantly beneath the midday sun while Princess Rhaenys guided her effortlessly through the formation. Powerful and graceful in equal measure, Meleys seemed to dance upon the winds.
Wyldfyre followed close behind.
Black scales gleamed with deep green undertones as the dragon sliced through the skies. Small curls of flame occasionally escaped between his teeth while Prince Aegon rode comfortably within the saddle.
Draxteronxia brought up the rear of the formation.
The great silver dragon was immense, rivaled in size only by Vhagar and the Black Dread himself. Sunlight shimmered across her polished scales while Prince Rhaeger sat proudly within the saddle. Her brilliant blue eyes never seemed to stop moving, constantly watching both the dragons ahead and the waters far below.
Above them all circled Caraxes.
Daemon's crimson dragon shrieked joyfully through the skies while the prince himself appeared to be enjoying the flight far more than any sane man should. More than once Caraxes dove unnecessarily close over passing ships simply to watch sailors panic below.
“Daemon!” Viserys shouted across the wind after Caraxes swept far too near Goldwing once again. Daemon only laughed. “What?” he called back. “Caraxes likes the sea air.” The Blood Wyrm screamed loudly overhead as though agreeing with him.
Far below the dragons, a great Driftmark vessel cut steadily through Blackwater Bay carrying the household staff of Prince Baelon, Prince Viserys, Princess Consort Aemma, Princess Rhaenys, Prince Aegon, and Prince Rhaeger alongside servants, wet nurses, guards, and supplies unable to travel by dragonback. Velaryon banners snapped sharply against the sea winds while sailors crowded the decks staring upward in awe.
Seven dragons crossing the skies together was already enough to send whispers racing ahead toward King's Landing. Then came the eighth. A deep roar rolled across the heavens behind them.
Every dragon in the formation shifted immediately. Vhagar lifted her massive head while Goldwing released a low answering rumble. Even Caraxes stopped his endless circling.
Then the clouds parted. Balerion emerged from the smoke-darkened skies like some ancient beast from legend itself. The Black Dread dwarfed every dragon around him. His wings blotted sunlight from the waters below while his black scales swallowed the daylight itself. Great scars marked his ancient body, reminders of battles fought long before most kingdoms of Westeros had even existed.
Below them, sailors began shouting prayers. Some dropped to their knees outright. The Doom of Valyria had taken wing once more. Yet Balerion did not roar again. The ancient dragon simply settled behind the royal formation, vast red eyes fixed ahead toward King's Landing while the younger dragons flew onward around him. No rider sat upon his back.
Still, none doubted exactly why the Black Dread had joined them. “He follows the girls,” Aemma whispered softly against the winds. Viserys looked back once toward the ancient dragon and felt unease settle deep within his chest. Not fear. Something older. Reverence.
Ahead of them, the towers of King's Landing slowly began to rise along the distant horizon while across Blackwater Bay stories already spread faster than the dragons themselves.
The dragons of House Targaryen were returning home. And the Black Dread flew with them. As the Dragonpit came into view, the dragons began their descent from the skies above King's Landing.
Below them the city had all but descended into chaos. Smallfolk flooded the streets pointing toward the heavens while guards struggled to maintain order amidst the growing crowds gathering beneath the looming shadow of the great domed structure atop the Hill of Rhaenys. Many had seen dragons before. Few had ever seen so many flying together.
And none living had witnessed the Black Dread soaring above the capital once more. Vhagar landed first. The ancient bronze dragon descended into the Dragonpit courtyard with enough force to shake the stones beneath her claws while dragonkeepers rushed forward shouting commands to one another over the thunder of wings and dragon cries. Princess Visenya stirred softly against Baelon's chest while Valyria hissed furiously at every person foolish enough to approach too quickly.
Meleys came next.
The Red Queen descended in a blaze of crimson scales and copper fire, her great wings stirring powerful gusts across the courtyard as she settled upon the ancient stones. Far more graceful than Vhagar's thunderous arrival, Meleys lowered herself with practiced ease, allowing Princess Rhaenys to dismount before folding her wings neatly against her sides.
Even amongst such an impressive gathering of dragons, the Red Queen drew admiring glances. Her scarlet scales gleamed brightly beneath the afternoon sun while her polished copper crest seemed almost aflame.
Goldwing landed beside Vhagar moments later, molten gold eyes narrowing at the chaos surrounding them while Viserys carefully shielded sleeping Daenys against the winds. Shadowwing remained curled close near the saddle, eerily silent as the hatchling watched the crowded Dragonpit with unsettling attention.
Starwing descended gracefully after them carrying Aemma and Rhaenyra while Syrax chirped loudly enough to rival the shouting dragonkeepers below.
Wyldfyre landed next, black scales gleaming with green undertones beneath the afternoon light as flames curled faintly between the dragon's teeth.
Caraxes arrived in a shriek of crimson wings and barely restrained violence while Daemon looked entirely too pleased with the panic erupting around him.
Draxteronxia never descended toward the Dragonpit. Instead, the great silver dragon broke away from the formation and banked westward toward the coastline beyond the city. Sunlight flashed across her scales as she flew toward a vast sea cave several leagues from King's Landing, a lair she had claimed whenever her rider visited the capital.
High above them all, the Black Dread continued circling the skies over King's Landing. Vast wings cast shadows large enough to swallow entire streets while the city watched in terrified awe. To many below, Balerion appeared less a dragon and more a dark god passing judgment upon the realm.
Only once the children of the dragon had been carefully transferred from dragonback to waiting wheelhouses did the ancient dragon finally move.
Guards surrounded the royal carriages tightly while servants hurried the newborn princesses beneath heavy coverings and into the safety of enclosed transport away from the growing crowds. Then the Black Dread turned. Without command. Without rider. He did not fly toward Dragonstone.
Instead, Balerion banked westward toward the coastline beyond the city where Draxteronxia had made her lair.
Before disappearing into the clouds, the ancient dragon released one final thunderous roar powerful enough to rattle windows throughout King's Landing itself.
The sound rolled across Blackwater Bay like distant thunder. Then he vanished from sight. Yet everyone in the city knew the truth. The Black Dread had not left. He was still there.
Watching.
The sound rolled across the city like a warning. Or perhaps a promise. And far below, within the covered wheelhouse carrying the three princesses, Daenys' lavender eyes slowly opened. The main road leading from the Dragonpit toward the Red Keep quickly became overwhelmed with citizens pouring from homes, taverns, workshops, and marketplaces the moment word spread that the dragons had arrived.
Merchants abandoned stalls mid-sale while gold cloaks struggled desperately to force the swelling crowds back from the streets. Men, women, and children alike craned their necks toward the massive dome of the Dragonpit where distant roars still echoed across the city.
“The Black Dread returned!” “I saw him myself!” “Six dragons descended from the skies!” “No, seven!” “They say Dragonstone birthed dragonlords again!” “The babes hatched dragons in their cradles!”
Every retelling grew wilder than the last. Far behind the crowds, within the Dragonpit itself, the dragons had finally begun settling into their dens after the long flight from Dragonstone. Vhagar’s low rumbling growls echoed through the massive structure while Goldwing watched every dragonkeeper approaching Viserys with visible suspicion. Starwing remained calmer, though the silver-blue dragon kept her head lowered protectively near Aemma whenever servants passed too close carrying the newborn princesses.
Caraxes remained the greatest problem of them all. Daemon’s dragon prowled the far side of the Dragonpit like a restless predator while terrified dragonkeepers attempted to pretend they were not moments away from being eaten alive.
Wyldfyre’s green-sheened black scales glimmered within the shadows of his den as the younger dragon watched the commotion with sharp glowing eyes.
Only two dragons were absent from the Dragonpit.
Balerion and Draxteronxia.
The Black Dread had already vanished beyond Blackwater Bay, but he had not returned to Dragonstone as many expected. Instead, the ancient dragon followed his mate toward the massive sea cave several leagues from the capital, a place large enough to house two dragons that had once known the skies of Old Valyria itself. Yet the memory of his final roar still lingered heavily over the city like an omen.
Now the royal procession made its way carefully through King’s Landing toward the Red Keep. Wheelhouses surrounded by guards rolled slowly through the packed streets while nobles and commoners alike pressed desperately against one another for glimpses of the royal family returning from Dragonstone.
Inside the largest wheelhouse sat Aemma with the three newborn princesses bundled carefully within thick blankets while Amanda and several trusted attendants remained close nearby. The hatchlings had refused separation from their riders even for the journey through the city and now occupied the carriage as stubbornly as spoiled cats.
Syrax chirped loudly every few moments whenever the crowds outside became too noisy while Valyria remained curled protectively around Visenya’s blankets. Shadowwing sat perched near the carriage window, silent molten eyes staring outward through the slight opening in the curtains.
Daenys rested quietly beside the hatchling. Then suddenly the newborn princess stirred. Tiny fingers curled tighter within her blankets as the sounds of the city echoed around them. The shouting crowds. The rolling wheels. The distant roars from the Dragonpit. And somewhere beyond the carriage walls, hidden amongst the thousands flooding the streets of King’s Landing, someone was watching.
As the royal procession finally reached the towering steps of the Red Keep, the full weight of the capital’s attention settled upon them. Gold cloaks lined the path leading toward the castle entrance while servants and nobles crowded the upper balconies overlooking the courtyard below. Word of the dragons’ arrival had clearly spread through the keep faster than wildfire itself.
Waiting at the top of the great stone staircase stood nearly the entirety of the royal court. Lords and ladies dressed in rich silks gathered alongside knights of the Kingsguard while members of the small council stood assembled near the entrance beneath the crimson-and-black banners of House Targaryen.
At their center stood the king and queen themselves.
King Jaehaerys watched the arriving procession with open astonishment still lingering across his features while beside him Queen Alysanne looked near ready to push half the court down the stairs herself in her impatience to reach her great-grandchildren.
Even from below the steps, Aemma could already see Otto Hightower standing amongst the gathered councilors. Calm. Composed. Hands folded neatly before him as though someone had not very nearly sent death into the nursery of Dragonstone.
Daemon noticed him too. “Oh, this is going to be enjoyable,” the prince murmured beneath his breath while stepping down from the wheelhouse escort. “Daemon,” Viserys warned quietly. “What?” Daemon asked innocently. “I said enjoyable, not fatal.” “That distinction concerns me.”
“It concerns everyone,” Rhaenys muttered. The moment Aemma stepped from the wheelhouse carrying Rhaenyra, the hatchlings immediately began chirping and hissing at the unfamiliar crowds surrounding them. Syrax puffed herself up indignantly while Valyria remained tightly curled around Visenya’s blankets like a living shield.
Shadowwing alone stayed silent. The blue-sheened hatchling perched quietly against Daenys’ blankets while molten eyes fixed themselves directly upon the gathered members of the small council. And without warning, the tiny dragon hissed. The sound silenced the courtyard almost instantly. Then Daenys opened her eyes.
Lavender eyes far too aware for a newborn settled upon the gathered court with quiet intensity while somewhere beyond the walls of King’s Landing, an ancient roar echoed faintly across the skies.
Balerion.
The Black Dread might not stand within the city, but every person there suddenly remembered he had not truly left.
Following behind the royal family into the courtyard came another group that immediately drew the attention of every noble present.
Five women clothed in flowing robes of deep crimson and black descended from the final wheelhouse beneath the watchful eyes of Dragonstone guards. Threads of gold shimmered through their layered garments like veins of living fire while strange Valyrian glyphs had been embroidered carefully along their sleeves and collars.
The courtyard fell quieter with every step they took. Even amongst House Targaryen, the women were unsettling to behold. “The Fire Priestesses,” one noble whispered fearfully somewhere within the gathered crowd.
The attendants of the ancient Faith of Old Valyria moved silently behind the royal family, each woman carrying a bronze censer burning with pale blue flame that released curling silver smoke into the afternoon air. Their long silver hair remained unbound despite the wind sweeping through the courtyard while glowing amber eyes seemed to reflect every torch and brazier surrounding the Red Keep.
They were women said to read fate itself within flame. The chosen seers of the Fourteen Flames. It was whispered throughout Dragonstone and the old Valyrian families that the priestesses could see visions sent by the dragon gods within any fire that burned before them. Some called them holy women. Others called them witches draped in prophecy and smoke.
Otto Hightower clearly preferred the latter.
The Hand’s expression tightened immediately upon seeing the women approach behind the royal procession. Beside him several members of court shifted uneasily while septons standing near the entrance muttered quiet prayers beneath their breath.
Queen Alysanne, however, looked entirely unsurprised.
“You brought them openly?” Jaehaerys asked quietly as Baelon approached the staircase. Baelon’s expression remained grim. “After what occurred on Dragonstone, I deemed it wise.” At once Otto stepped forward carefully. “Your Grace,” he began diplomatically, “surely bringing foreign priestesses devoted to pagan gods directly into the Red Keep sends a dangerous message to the realm.”
Before Baelon could answer, one of the Fire Priestesses slowly lifted her gaze toward Otto. The eldest amongst them. Ancient silver scars marked the woman’s hands where old burns had long since healed while pale smoke curled unnaturally around her robes despite no nearby flame feeding it.
“The realm should concern itself less with dangerous messages,” the priestess said softly in High Valyrian accented Common Tongue, “and more with dangerous men.” The courtyard fell into complete silence. Then somewhere nearby Shadowwing gave a sharp approving chirp.
Daemon immediately started coughing to hide what was very obviously laughter. “And what happened upon Dragonstone?” King Jaehaerys asked sharply, the warmth of reunion fading quickly beneath growing concern. “You sent no raven ahead. No warning that you intended to return to the Red Keep.”
The courtyard fell still once more as even the gathered nobles seemed to sense something darker lingering beneath the royal family’s sudden return.
Baelon ascended the steps slowly, Princess Visenya still secured carefully against his chest while Valyria remained curled protectively around the infant’s blankets. The hatchling watched the court with visible distrust, silver eyes narrowing whenever anyone stepped too close. “A servant arrived upon Dragonstone claiming to have been sent by you and the queen,” Baelon said evenly. At once confusion crossed both Jaehaerys’ and Alysanne’s faces.
“We sent no servant,” Alysanne answered immediately.
“We know,” Viserys said quietly as he joined his father upon the staircase carrying Daenys. Shadowwing perched silently against the babe’s blankets, molten eyes fixed upon the gathered small council. “A raven arrived from King’s Landing confirming as much.”
Murmurs immediately spread through the gathered court. Otto Hightower remained perfectly still.
Too still.
“The woman was admitted into Dragonstone under false pretenses,” Baelon continued, voice hardening. “She claimed she had been sent to assist in the care of the children.” “And?” Otto asked carefully. Daemon laughed softly. The sound carried no humor whatsoever.
“She admitted someone sent her into the nursery,” the younger prince answered while slowly ascending the steps himself. “Though unfortunately for whoever hired her, they believed the children born upon Dragonstone were boys.”
At once silence crashed over the courtyard.
Several nobles visibly paled.
Queen Alysanne’s expression sharpened into fury so quickly it nearly rivaled Vhagar’s temper while Jaehaerys himself looked moments away from drawing Blackfyre then and there.
“You are telling me,” the king said dangerously, “that someone attempted to infiltrate Dragonstone to reach my great-grandchildren?” “Yes,” Baelon answered flatly.
Aemma stepped forward then, Rhaenyra bundled securely within her arms while Syrax hissed openly at the gathered court around them.
“The dragons knew before we did,” she said quietly. “Every dragon upon Dragonstone began roaring the moment the woman entered the castle.”
At that, unease visibly spread amongst the gathered nobles.
Because dragons sensing danger before men sounded far too close to the legends of Old Valyria for comfort.
Then the eldest Fire Priestess stepped forward slowly, pale smoke still curling from the bronze censer within her scarred hands. Amber eyes swept across the gathered court before settling somewhere near the members of the small council.
“The flames warned us long ago,” the woman said softly. “The greatest threats to dragonlords rarely come from enemies across the sea.” Her gaze shifted deliberately toward Otto Hightower. “They come from men standing beside the throne.”
“WHO would dare use the shadow of the throne to send death toward innocent babes not even a moon old?” Jaehaerys thundered.
The king’s voice echoed across the courtyard hard enough that even the gathered crowds below the Red Keep seemed to fall silent beneath the fury carried within his words.
No one answered.
No one dared.
The small council stood frozen where they had gathered upon the staircase while nobles exchanged increasingly nervous glances amongst themselves. Several looked openly toward Otto Hightower before quickly looking away again as though fearful even that might be noticed.
Alysanne descended the steps at once, fury burning plainly across her face as she moved directly toward Aemma and the newborn princesses.
“Let me see them,” the queen demanded softly, the anger within her voice vanishing entirely the moment her eyes settled upon the children.
Aemma carefully shifted Rhaenyra into the queen’s waiting arms while Syrax chirped suspiciously at first before eventually allowing the older woman closer.
“Oh, you precious little things,” Alysanne whispered, heartbreak and rage warring within her eyes. “Someone sought to harm babes scarcely brought into this world.” At once Syrax hissed sharply toward the gathered court behind the queen. The hatchling’s tiny wings spread wide. Then Valyria joined her.
The silver-sheened dragonling released a low growl from Baelon’s arms while Shadowwing remained deathly still beside Daenys. Watching. Always watching.
Otto stepped forward carefully then, every inch the composed Hand of the King despite the tension swallowing the courtyard whole.
“Your Grace,” he began solemnly, “whoever committed such an act against House Targaryen has committed treason of the highest order. The full resources of the crown should be devoted to uncovering those responsible.”
Daemon laughed outright. The sound was sharp enough to cut steel. “Convenient,” the prince drawled while descending another step toward the Hand. “You seem remarkably eager to investigate crimes committed from your own city.”
“Daemon,” Viserys warned quietly. “No,” Daemon answered without taking his eyes from Otto. “I would very much like to hear the Hand explain how an unknown servant managed to leave King’s Landing carrying false royal authority without anyone noticing.”
Otto’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly.
“The capital houses hundreds of servants, merchants, and travelers each day—” “And yet somehow this one knew exactly where to go,” Daemon interrupted coldly. “Straight into the nursery of Dragonstone.”
Silence followed immediately after. Then beyond the walls of King’s Landing came a roar. Not from the Dragonpit. Not from Caraxes. Something far deeper. Far older. The sound rolled across the capital like thunder given life.
Balerion.
The Black Dread’s warning shook through the city, and moments later another ancient voice answered him as Draxteronxia’s roar joined his from the cliffs beyond Blackwater Bay.
The message was unmistakable.
The ancient dragons were listening.
And beside Viserys, newborn Princess Daenys slowly opened her eyes and stared directly at Otto Hightower. The eldest Fire Priestess stepped forward slowly, the silver smoke from her censer curling around her like living mist.
The courtyard had already fallen silent beneath the king’s fury and the voices of two ancient dragons, yet somehow the woman’s presence seemed to still it further. Even the whispers of the gathered nobles faded as her ancient eyes settled upon the three newborn princesses.
For several long moments she simply watched them.
Daenys.
Rhaenyra.
Visenya.
Then the flames within her censer suddenly flared brighter. A sharp intake of breath escaped several members of the court. The priestess did not seem to notice.
Her gaze remained fixed upon the children as though she looked far beyond the present day. Beyond the Red Keep. Beyond Westeros itself. When she finally spoke, her voice carried across the courtyard with unsettling clarity.
“One shall rule the lands of Westeros.” Her eyes settled briefly upon one of the infants before moving onward. “The others shall awaken the home of the dragons.” A murmur spread through the gathered nobles.
“The dreamer shall awaken the hearts of dragons once more. From ruin shall come rebirth. From ash shall come life. The curse that has long haunted the lands of our ancestors shall begin to break.” The smoke swirling from the censer twisted upward toward the heavens.
“The fallen home of dragonlords shall not remain fallen forever.” Even Jaehaerys had gone still now. The priestess continued as though speaking words she could not stop. “One shall carry the crown of the west. Two shall carry the fire of the east. Together they shall stand where others failed.”
The flames burned brighter still.
“Three sisters. Three dragons. Three crowns.” A chill seemed to sweep through the courtyard despite the warmth of the afternoon sun.
“One day they shall unite the lands divided by sea and time. Westeros and the reborn lands of the dragons shall kneel beneath one banner. Not through conquest alone... but through blood, fire, and destiny intertwined.”The priestess finally lowered her gaze. “The Dream begins anew.” Silence followed. Complete and absolute. Even the hatchlings had gone still. Then from beyond Blackwater Bay came another distant roar.
Not threatening this time. Answering.
The sound of two ancient dragons carried across the winds as though Balerion and Draxteronxia themselves had heard the words spoken within the walls of the Red Keep.
And for the briefest moment, Daenys smiled in her sleep.
“Come, my lords and ladies of the court,” Jaehaerys declared, his voice carrying across the courtyard. “Tonight we shall hold a small feast, and in the days ahead a grand celebration worthy of the occasion.”
The king looked toward his great-granddaughters before turning his attention back to the gathered nobles.
“Let it be spread far and wide throughout the Seven Kingdoms that the next generation of the House of the Dragon has arrived.”
A proud smile touched his face.
“Three princesses have been born to our blood. Three dragons have hatched upon Dragonstone. House Targaryen grows stronger still.”
His gaze swept across the assembled court.
“Send word to every castle, holdfast, and village from Dorne to the Wall. Let the realm know that the blood of Old Valyria remains strong.” Jaehaerys raised a hand toward the three newborn princesses. “The future of House Targaryen has come.”
That night a small feast to welcome the new princesses was indeed held within the Red Keep. Music filled the halls while servants carried platters overflowing with food and wine between long tables occupied by nobles from across the realm. Toasts were offered to the newborn princesses, to House Targaryen, and to the dragons that had hatched alongside them upon Dragonstone. To most in attendance, it was a night of celebration. To others, it was a nightmare come to life.
For generations, those loyal to the interests of Oldtown had quietly worked toward a single goal. Not openly, for such things would have been called treason, but through careful influence, whispered counsel, political maneuvering, and patient planning.
The dragons had been diminishing. Their numbers had slowly declined. Their riders had become fewer. The great beasts that once ruled the skies of Westeros and beyond were no longer as numerous as they had been in the days of Old Valyria. That had been the goal. A weaker House Targaryen was easier to influence. Easier to guide. Easier to control. Yet everything that had occurred upon Dragonstone threatened to undo years of quiet effort.
Three princesses born in a single night. Three dragon eggs from an ancient clutch hatching beside their cradles. The Black Dread emerging from the Dragonmont alongside his mate, Draxteronxia, as though the dragons of Old Valyria themselves had answered the arrival of the next generation.
Ancient prophecies were being spoken openly before the king and court while Fire Priestesses walked freely through the halls of the Red Keep under the protection of House Targaryen itself. It was not supposed to be happening. The dragons were supposed to be fading. Instead, they were growing stronger.
Across the feast hall, Otto Hightower sat quietly amongst the members of the small council, his expression calm despite the celebrations surrounding him. To any observer he appeared the very image of a loyal servant of the crown.
Inside, however, his thoughts churned. The woman sent to Dragonstone had failed. Worse, she had been captured. Fortunately, she knew little, but failure remained failure.
His gaze drifted toward the high table where the royal family sat surrounded by guards, dragonkeepers, and enough watchful eyes to discourage any further attempts.
Aemma held Rhaenyra while Queen Alysanne proudly cradled Visenya. Nearby, Viserys sat with Daenys sleeping peacefully against his chest while Shadowwing remained curled possessively beside her. The tiny dragon suddenly lifted her head. For the briefest moment, molten eyes locked with Otto's across the hall.
The hatchling hissed.
A small sound, barely audible above the music, yet somehow it sent a chill down his spine. Otto looked away first. For the first time since receiving word from Dragonstone, a troubling thought entered his mind.
Perhaps the danger was greater than he had imagined. Not because of the children, but because of what seemed determined to protect them.
The days that followed the arrival of the princesses within King’s Landing were unlike anything the Red Keep had seen in years. The halls that had once echoed with political whispers and quiet schemes were now filled with the sounds of newborn cries, tiny dragon chirps, and members of the royal family moving constantly between their duties and the nursery.
Daenys, Rhaenyra, and Visenya quickly became the center of the royal family’s world. The three princesses were rarely without someone nearby, whether it was their parents, grandparents, uncles, or the guards now stationed permanently outside their chambers.
The attack on Dragonstone had changed everything. What had once been a trusted household was now examined carefully, every servant checked and every unfamiliar face questioned before being allowed anywhere near the children.
The dragonlings made such precautions even more difficult for those who wished to approach unnoticed. Shadowwing, Syrax, and Valyria had already proven that their young age meant very little when it came to protecting their riders. They watched, they listened, and they remembered.
Three weeks passed, and still the question remained unanswered. Someone had sent the woman to Dragonstone. Someone had given her false authority in the name of the king and queen. Someone had known enough about the royal family’s movements to strike when they believed the children would be most vulnerable.
Many within the court believed the Rogue Prince’s silence meant his anger had faded. They believed that as the days passed and no accusations came, the prince had accepted that the trail had disappeared.
They were wrong.
Daemon Targaryen had not forgotten. He was still searching, only now he searched quietly.