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Location: Dragonstone
Date: 10 BC
POV: Aegon Targaryen Lord of Dragonstone
The sea crashes against the cliffs below, relentless and ancient. I sit alone in my father's solar, though I still hesitate to call it mine. The fire burns low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the dragonstone walls. Nothing in this room has changed. Not the tapestries, not the scrolls, not the dragonbone chair where Aerion once sat. It feels wrong to alter it. As if doing so would erase him.
I hate calling it mine.
He died a year ago. Sudden. Quiet. One morning, he simply didn't wake. My mother found him first, still beside him in bed, cold and unmoving. The maester came quickly, but there was nothing to be done. No poison. No wound. No sign of violence. Just... gone.
I tried to understand it. Even with the memories of another life one filled with science, medicine, logic I couldn't find the answer. Stroke. Aneurysm. Heart failure. Words that mean little here. The maester was baffled. I was too.
And yet, I wonder. This world is steeped in mystery. Magic lingers in its bones, half-forgotten and half-feared. Curses, spirits, old gods who's to say what truly claimed him? Even with all I know, I couldn't pierce the veil.
It unsettles me. How a world can hold dragons and sorcery, yet remain so primitive. Steel and stone. Ravens and scrolls. They whisper of miracles and monsters, but bleed like peasants. I see the contradictions everywhere.
I rise and walk to the narrow window. The sky is bruised with twilight, the sea below churning like a restless beast. I am seventeen. Lord of Dragonstone. Heir to a legacy I did not ask for. Ten years from now, I will change everything.
But for now, I am just a son trying to fit in my fathers chair.
The hinges of the door groaned open, breaking my thoughts.
Orys Baratheon filled the doorway like a storm cloud. He's grown into a man these past years—broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, built like an ox and moving with the confidence of one. His black hair, long now, brushes the tops of his shoulders. On his back rests a greatsword of castle-forged steel that few could carry, and fewer still could swing without stumbling.
"Letters from the east," he said, his deep voice carrying across the room as he strode in.
He set a sealed parchment on my desk. The wax bore the sigil of Pentos.
I broke the seal, scanning the contents. To my mild surprise—and grudging respect—the magister wasted no ink on flattery or flowery greeting. The letter was direct, even blunt.
Volantis, the so-called oldest daughter of the Valyrian Freehold, seeks to claim its inheritance. Its ruling faction, the Tigers, has crushed the Elephants, the party that favored trade over war. With their rivals gone, the Tigers have turned outward. They have already swallowed Lys and Myr whole.
Now, having declared war upon Tyrosh, they mean to claim it as well. Pentos has allied with its sister city to resist, but the magister warns that without greater strength, both cities will fall. The plea is simple: Send for the last Dragonlords. Ask for fire.
I set the letter down, feeling the weight of the words far heavier than the parchment.
Orys stood like a mountain quiet, patient, but always there if I needed him. I smiled, just slightly. My brother always knew when I needed time to think.
My gaze drifted to the window, but my mind went far beyond the walls of Dragonstone.
My Primarch-forged memory never failed me; every scrap of knowledge, every trivial detail from my two lives this one and the last was etched into me with perfect clarity. And in that flawless recall lay the weight of foresight of potential foresight of a path already tred.
And I remembered this war.
It was in this conflict that Balerion would earn his moniker the Black Dread. It was here where I would meet Argilac Durrandon, the Storm King, a man as fierce as the tempests his kingdom is named for.
If my memory serves me right, Argilac has likely received the same plea for aid and even now sails toward the Free Cities.
Together, their strength would tip the scales in Pentos and Tyrosh favor but Volantis and its tigers would hold until I on Balerion would remind them why valyria was there master.
That was how history was supposed to play out.
But was that how he wanted it to play out?
History was a chain of events. But I had already shattered links. Every choice I made sent ripples outward some small, some tidal. The question was no longer what would happen… but what should. And that answer, I feared, was mine alone to give.
"Where are Visenya and Rhaenys?" I asked.
Orys shifted his stance, the greatsword on his back catching the light for a moment. "Visenya's flying Vhagar over Westeros—adding more detail to the table."
I nodded. The painted table was still a work in progress, its coastline already taking shape beneath layers of lacquer and careful carving. One day it would be the heart of our war planning, but for now it was still missing much. The kingdoms of the mountain and vale, the North, and the Iron Islands had yet to be flown over and charted. If I knew my sister, she would be back before nightfall, windblown and smelling faintly of dragonfire.
But then… I noticed something in Orys' face. It was subtle—so subtle that most would have missed it. A faint shift, like the shadow of a storm gathering around the peak of a mountain. He said nothing, and I didn't press him.
When he finally spoke, it was quiet. "Rhaenys is with Mother."
The words made the air feel colder. I only nodded in reply.
Since Father's death, our mother, Lady Valaena, had been… fading. Her memory had grown fickle, her strength slower to return each morning. I was no scientist or physician in my past life, but I remembered the signs—dementia, creeping in like winter frost. Especially in those who had lost the one they loved most.
And she was deteriorating.
I visited her every day, but my duties kept me from staying as long as I wished. Orys had made certain guards were always nearby to help her and keep her safe. He visited whenever he could.
Rhaenys… she stayed with her the most. She would tell Mother stories from the past memories she had forgotten or speak of her flights on Meraxes.
Visenya… Visenya had taken it hardest. She visited now and then, but I could see it in her eyes: she didn't want to remember our mother like this. Perhaps she thought it better to keep the image of the strong, fierce woman we once knew, rather than watch her slowly wither.
I let such depressing thoughts go and nod to Orys, the decision already made in my mind. "I'll answer the Pentoshi magister's call for aid."
Orys gave a slow nod in return, then asked, "Do you want me to call the banners?"
I shook my head. "The magister asked for fire, not blood—so I shall give him fire."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Orys's mouth. "Will you fly now, or wait for Visenya to return with Vhagar?"
I paused for a moment, weighing the thought. It would be wiser to wait, to have my sister at my side. I gave him a firm nod. "I'll wait for Visenya—but I'll go to Rhaenys now."
Orys inclined his head in agreement, then turned toward the door. "I'll have the guards and spotters keep an eye out for Vhagar's return. You'll know the moment she's seen."
I watched him go, his broad shoulders framed by the sunlight spilling into the solar.
Reaching for Blackfyre, I strapped Valyrian steel blade at my waist. The weight of it was always reassuring, a reminder of the strength of my bloodline and my duty.
Without another word, I stepped out of the solar and made my way toward my mother's chambers toward Rhaenys.
---
The black stone of Dragonstone's halls was cool beneath my boots, the familiar weight of the keep settling around me like a second skin. Servants stepped aside as I passed, bowing low, some even dropping to a knee. It was not the respectful nod once given to a prince. No—this was deeper, heavier. This was the bow given to a dragonlord.
It felt strange, the shift in their eyes. I was no different then the man they bowed to yesterday —yet the title of lord now seemed to make me taller in their minds.
I reached the last bend before my mother's chambers when the door opened. Rhaenys stepped out, and for a moment, the world forgot how to breathe.
She was no longer the young girl with the promise of beauty. That promise had bloomed early. Her hair, silver-gold like spun moonlight, fell in perfect waves down her back. Amethyst eyes caught the torchlight and seemed to drink it in. Her skin was pale and unblemished, her lips the soft pink of a spring blossom. The gown she wore—white and silver, edged in gold—was cut from silk so fine it seemed to glide over her frame, clinging just enough to whisper of the shape beneath.
I had seen her a hundred times before, but still my heart gave a traitorous flutter.
Perhaps it was Balerion's bond, a reflection of his own instincts—Meraxes was his mate, after all, and Rhaenys his rider. Perhaps that tethered me to her in ways I did not yet understand. Yet it was not only her. When Visenya shed her armor for silks and jewels, I found myself just as distracted.
I could feel my mind wander down paths I knew I shouldn't. As a Primarch, I knew I had the body for such things. The… equipment, as it were, was functional. But the matter of children was another question entirely.
Even in my past life, the truth had never been known. Could the Emperor's sons sire heirs? Some claimed it was impossible—an intentional design, perhaps. Yet the Emperor himself had fathered children, naturally, without gene-labs or artifices.
So perhaps…My thoughts where brought back to the present as Rhaenys met my gaze, and for a heartbeat, I wondered if she saw the storm behind my eyes. If she felt it too.
Was I meant to rule, but never to father? To conquer, but never to create? The thought chilled me more than the stone beneath my boots.