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POV: 3rd Person
Two lookouts trudged along the jagged coast of Dragonstone, their boots crunching on wet stone as the sea crashed against the cliffs below. Mist clung to the air, rolling in waves as if the island itself breathed.
One of the men squinted upward, pausing mid-step. A shadow moved against the pale sky — vast, gliding, alive.
"Seven save us…" he muttered. "Which one is it?"
The second narrowed his eyes, hand shading his brow. Then the clouds broke, and bronze scales caught the sun, flashing with streaks of greenish-blue. A living blade cleaving through the heavens. The she-dragon roared once, the sound shaking the very stones beneath their feet, and then was past — Vhagar.
The men stood frozen for a heartbeat before one fumbled for the horn at his side. He pressed it to his lips and blew, the deep bellow echoing across the cliffs. From tower to tower, the sound was taken up, a chain of horns carrying the message through every corner of Dragonstone.
Lady Visenya Targaryen had returned.
---
Visenya's boots struck against the black stone of Dragonstone's halls, each step carrying the weight of purpose and restless energy. Her dark violet eyes swept her surroundings like a hunting hawk, sharp and unyielding, searching not for comfort but for weakness.
Servants and maids rushed forward with silks and gowns, eager to strip away her dragon-leathers and dress her as a lady. Visenya brushed past them without so much as a glance, her stride unbroken, as though they were no more than the wind at her back.
Orys Baratheon leaned casually against the wall, watching her pass with a low chuckle. The maids wilted, retreating with their rejected garments.
Her eyes snapped to him. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing," Orys said with an easy grin. "Only glad you're back safe."
Visenya rolled her eyes. "What could possibly harm me when Vhagar flies at my side?"
Her words carried no arrogance, only truth.
Visenya's beauty was unlike her sister's. Rhaenys was a bouquet of blossoms, soft petals hiding the sting of thorns — a sweetness laced with danger. But Visenya… Visenya was a blade. She was Dark Sister made flesh: sleek, sharp, coveted by all who laid eyes upon her, and deadly to any who proved unworthy.
A shade taller than Rhaenys, though still shorter than her brothers, she carried herself with the bearing of a warrior. Her silver-blonde hair, almost platinum, gleamed like polished steel, and her violet eyes gleamed with a fire that dared the world to test her.
Orys fell into step beside her as she strode toward the solar. "A message came from Pentos while you were away a call to arms."
Her pace quickened instantly. her mind already racing ahead of the words.
"Are we at war? Have we sent word to gather our vassles and fleet?" Visenya asked but Orys shook his head.
"No our lord brother wished to wait for you before making a decision," Orys said.
"Good" that was all Visenya said but as they walked Orys suddenly scrunched and coverd his nose.
"You sure you dont want to take a bath first?" Orys teased. "You smell like dragon."
Visenya didn't break stride. Didn't even glance back.
---
The solar smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and the sea-wind drifting in through the open shutters. Aegon sat at the great oak table, maps unfurled before him, letters scattered at his side. Rhaenys leaned close, her soft voice reading through notes as his hand moved wooden pieces across the board.
When the door opened, both lifted their heads.
Visenya strode in, Orys at her back shutting the door firmly behind them. Ash and dust from her journey still clung to her riding leathers, and her dark violet eyes gleamed with sharp intent.
"Visenya!" Rhaenys rose, her face bright with a smile. "How was the flight? Did Vhagar chafe at the winds?"
Visenya returned the nod, her lips curling faintly but her words as direct as ever. "She flew well. The winds were steady." Her gaze flicked to the table. "Let us skip pleasantries, brother. What is the current situation?"
Aegon did not flinch at her bluntness. Instead, he handed her the folded letters, each sealed and marked with Pentoshi and Tyroshi hands. "Read for yourself. War spreads in every direction in the east. We must decide where the dragons will turn their fire."
She scanned the parchment quickly, then set it down with a sharp motion.
"I would reinforce Tyrosh," Aegon said, his hand sliding a black piece — Balerion — across the map. "Their capital is an island. Surrounded. Choked by Volantis' fleet. If the city falls, the Archon will bend or burn, and the balance of the Narrow Sea tilts against us."
From his place against the wall, Orys crossed his arms. "And why not Pentos? It was their magister who called for you. Should his plea go unanswered?"
Aegon's smirk was faint but certain. "Because Pentos holds Volantis and Myr's armies at their border. And Argilac Durrandon himself—" his hand moved another piece across the map, setting it at the edge of the Disputed Lands, "—bleeds the foe there. They are strained, but not yet broken. Tyrosh is desperate. Desperation makes for lasting gratitude."
As he spoke, the carved pieces clicked softly against the wood, allies and enemies arranged into clear shapes of war.
Rhaenys reached forward and plucked up the Tyroshi piece, rolling it lightly between her fingers. "The Archon will never forget who broke his chains," she said. "And once Tyrosh is freed, we can strike south and bolster Argilac's armies far sooner."
Orys gave a slow nod of agreement.
Then Visenya set the parchment down, her eyes narrowing. "And who, then, will you send?"
Aegon did not hesitate. "Myself. With Balerion."
The words had barely left him before Visenya's voice cut through the room. "Then I will go with you." Her tone left no room for doubt — or refusal.
But Aegon shook his head. He drew out three dragon-marked pieces: one black, one green, one white. He placed the black on Tyrosh, the green at Pentos, and the white stayed over Dragonstone.
"You will reinforce Pentos on the border," Aegon said. His voice was steady, brooking no argument. "That is where you are needed."
Visenya's jaw tightened, displeasure flashing in her violet eyes. "One dragon, even Balerion, against an entire fleet of ships is dangerous." Her tone carried irritation, but beneath it lay something else — concern for her brother.
Aegon gave a small nod. She was not wrong. The Volantene fleet was no rabble. Their ships were built for war, some carrying engines meant to batter down stone walls. Even Balerion could be wounded if struck true.
But Aegon's expression remained calm, steady. He leaned forward over the map and spoke with quiet certainty.
But unlike the Dragonlords of old Valyria, Aegon carried with him knowledge beyond this world. The strategies of Earth and of men who flew machines faster than sound, who mastered the art of aerial war — lived in his mind as clear as yesterday.
Applying them to dragonback was a matter of imagination, and for a son of the Emperor, imagination was a weapon as sharp as any blade.
"I have a strategy. The fleet will burn in a single night. Balerion's scales are black as pitch. High above the clouds, no sailor will see us. By the time the first ship erupts in flame, the rest will already be doomed." Aegon spoke with certainty of his strategies success.
Visenya studied him, lips pressed thin. She gave the faintest nod, yet her eyes betrayed her unease.
Rhaenys, tracing her fingers along the carved pieces that represented Volantis' fleet, finally spoke. "The plan will work," she admitted softly. "It almost cannot fail. But is it worth the risk? You are the only rider of a male dragon. Neither Vhagar nor Meraxes have yet laid eggs. If you fall…" She left the rest unsaid, the silence carrying the weight of her meaning.
From where he leaned against the wall, Orys smirked. "Perhaps Balerion only mirrors his rider," he said dryly.
Aegon's head snapped toward him, violet eyes narrowing in a glare sharp enough to cut steel. But Orys only grinned wider, storm-born and unafraid.
Neither Visenya nor Rhaenys interjected, though they both cast quick, sidelong glances at Aegon. He ignored them, though the unspoken tension between the three could not be mistaken. But that particular elephant would go unadressed for now.
Aegon straightened, his hand resting firmly on the map. His voice carried the finality of command. "Then it is agreed. I will fly Balerion to relieve Tyrosh of its siege. Visenya, you will ride to Pentos and lend them your strength upon their borders. Rhaenys, you will remain here to rally our fleets and men-at-arms."
One by one, Visenya, Orys, and Rhaenys gave their nods of assent. The decision was made.
"Good," Aegon said, rolling the map closed. "I will fly within the hour. Visenya—rest two days at least before taking Vhagar to Pentos. You have flown far already."
Visenya's lips parted as if to protest, but she caught the unified looks from her brother, her sister, and Orys alike. For a heartbeat her jaw worked as though she might press the issue, yet at last she exhaled sharply through her nose and inclined her head.
The matter settled, the siblings dispersed without further word, each to their appointed task. The air of the solar, heavy with maps and sealed letters, lingered with the weight of war. For the first time since the Doom, the dragons of Valyria would ride to battle.
---
POV: Aegon Targaryen
The servants moved with reverence, not haste, as though every strap, every clasp, every buckle was a holy rite. I stood still, arms slightly raised, while they set piece upon piece over my padded cloth and hardened leather.
The armor gleamed faintly as they worked. Valyrian steel. To most of the world, it was legend—a whispered marvel, a blade sharper than thought, a gift from the Doom itself. To wear an entire suit wrought of it was to bear living myth upon my flesh. Light as if I wore nothing, yet stronger than any fortress wall.
Our house had four such armors. Four, brought from the dying embers of Valyria when my forebears fled with their dragons. Father told me of them once, his voice hushed as if the stones themselves might listen. Even then I had not grasped the truth until I first saw them—steel that shimmered white in the sun, yet deepened into shadow when the light grew dim. Steel that seemed to breathe.
Blackfyre rested nearby, its twin edges whispering promises of fire and conquest. Sword and armor together, I thought, made me less man than storm.
My gaze drifted to the corner where Orys stood, broad shoulders braced, eyes sharp as he tracked the servants' every movement. His hand lay close to the hilt on his back, tension coiled in his frame like a bowstring. He would cut down anyone who dared so much as fumble a buckle too near my throat.
I almost laughed at the sight, but instead I smiled. My brother. My shield.
When the last strap was pulled tight, I rose from the chair and crossed to the polished mirror. A dark figure looked back at me, shadows clinging to every curve of the steel. In one breath, the grey seemed pale as ghost-bone, in another it deepened to black, as though the armor drank the firelight.
"How do I look?" I asked, my tone light though I already knew the answer.
Orys chuckled, his grin rough but fond. "Like the dragonlords they told tales of to us when we were boys. The ones we begged mother and father to hear before sleep."
I let out a soft huff of amusement, though my eyes lingered on my reflection a moment longer. A dragonlord, yes. But more.
We walked together, Orys and I, through the keep's corridors and out into the open air. Along the way, I parted from each of my kin in turn.
Rhaenys pressed a tender kiss to my cheek, her words soft as a lullaby, a blessing wrapped in love and worry.
Visenya, ever the steel of our family, clasped my arm firmly and leaned close, violet eyes blazing. Her warmth was rare, but tonight she gave it freely, bidding me luck and safety with words that carried more weight than any armor I wore.
Mother—Lady Valaena Velaryon—waited last. She drew me into her arms, her lips brushing my brow with the gentle finality of a woman who had already said too many goodbyes in her life. Her reassurance was quiet, but in it I heard love as fierce as dragonfire.
And then there was nothing more to delay me.
I stood upon the cliffs of Dragonstone, the sea roaring below, waves breaking themselves against black volcanic stone as if in salute. Ahead, Balerion crouched, vast and terrible, wings tucked close yet still casting a shadow like nightfall across the rocks.
"This is it," I murmured.
"It is," Orys said beside me, his voice low.
We lingered there in silence, two brothers—half in blood, whole in bond.
"I wish I could go with you," he confessed, the words stripped bare of pride, carrying only the weight of truth.
"I wish you could too," I replied, and meant it.
We clasped arms then, the sound of it sharp in the wind, echoing in the emptiness around us. It felt like a promise.
"Be safe, brother," Orys said, his eyes searching mine as if to hold me there a moment longer.
"I will, brother," I answered.
We parted.
I climbed the black-scaled mountain that was Balerion, settling into the great saddle fastened at the base of his neck. One last glance I gave—to my brother, to my blood, to my home—and then I turned forward.
With a nod, I urged him skyward. The world shuddered as Balerion spread his wings, and with a roar that shook Dragonstone to its foundations, we leapt into the night.
To war.