92 AC – Four Years After Aegon's Birth
The storm raged over Dragonstone. Thunder rolled like the roar of ancient gods, and the sea crashed furiously against the cliffs. Inside the old stone hall, the heat was dense. Aegon was alone, before the egg.
The egg was different that day. For a year, he had only touched it, feeling its subtle warmth, the weight of something dormant. But now, it trembled. A low, guttural sound began to emerge from within—not a cry, but a breath.
Aegon knelt. His fingers touched the cracked surface. A red line split the egg, glowing like lava beneath stone. Then, with a dry snap, the shell broke.
The dragon was born of fire as if it had always lived. Its wings were like blades, its skin a dark metallic red that looked black under certain lights. Its eyes burned like living embers. It let out a roar so deep it made the torch flames flicker.
Aenarion.
That would be his name. In honor of Aenar Targaryen, the man who saved their bloodline from the Doom of Valyria. Like him, this dragon was an omen. A harbinger. Aegon hadn't just heard the name—he felt it. It was as though the dragon had chosen it.
He extended his hand, and the newborn dragon did not hesitate. It touched its head to Aegon's chest and let out a deep, feline rumble. A bond was sealed there, without words. Fire recognized fire. Blood recognized blood.
Aegon smiled for the first time in many days.
The Family's Reaction
When the drums of fire echoed through the halls of Dragonstone, the entire fortress knew: a dragon had been born.
The first to arrive was Aemon. He looked at his son and the creature already growing—small yet powerful—and said nothing for a long while. Then he simply murmured:
"A true dragon. And only four years old..."
Jocelyn said nothing. Even as a Baratheon, she felt the weight of Targaryen myth. And the birth of a dragon was a rare event, even in that fire-born lineage.
Rhaenys was fascinated. Her connection to Valyrian blood ran as deep as Aegon's, and in her brother, she saw more than destiny. She saw choice. And that inspired her.
At the same time, Rhaenys was now with child—a new life growing, another thread in the ever-burning Targaryen legacy.
The Arrival of the King and Prince
King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, upon receiving the letter with the news, did not hesitate. Despite his advanced age, he mounted Vermithor with rare vigor and flew to Dragonstone alongside his son, Prince Baelon, riding Vhagar. The letter claimed the impossible: an egg dormant for over a hundred years had hatched.
And more: it had answered to a four-year-old boy.
Upon arrival, they were received with solemnity. Aemon personally led them to the chamber where Aenarion rested—now the size of a small horse, though only a few weeks old. His scales were already firm, his eyes wild, and his roar echoed through the fortress like restrained thunder.
"This dragon," Baelon said, nearly in reverence, "is made of iron and fire."
Jaehaerys didn't speak at first. His aged gaze rested on Aegon for a long moment. Then he spoke, softly:
"This is an omen. Aenarion is the right name. May the spirit of Aenar guide us, as he guided Daenys. The blood of Valyria still lives."
The Convergence of Dragons
With the arrival of Vermithor, Vhagar, and Caraxes (Aemon's own), Dragonstone became, for the first time in decades, the nest of the greatest and most powerful living dragons. Their roars split the sky like thunder. Locals spoke of a "whisper in the air," as if the very stone of the fortress vibrated with the gathered power.
But when Balerion the Black Dread sensed Aenarion's birth, something truly astonishing happened.
The great black dragon, already old and reclusive, rose into the sky on his own and landed on the high cliffs of Dragonstone to observe the newborn. His golden eyes locked onto the dark-red hatchling, and he let out a low, deep roar—not of threat, but recognition.
As if, after a lifetime, Balerion had finally seen an equal born into the world.
Aenarion's presence reignited something within him. And for a brief moment, the Targaryens present felt fear—not of the new dragon, but of what he represented.
The Bond
In the days that followed, Aegon and Aenarion became inseparable. The dragon grew fierce, with scales that shone like forged metal. It was as if his flesh were made of living obsidian.
Aenarion accepted no one else's touch. Only Aegon.
At night, he slept in the caverns beneath the fortress, and Aegon would descend to see him, alone. He would touch his head, listen to his low growls, and sometimes believed he heard thoughts. Not words—emotions. Fear. Caution. Fury. Love.
There, Aegon understood a profound truth: he was not just a boy with strength and will. He was a living piece of destiny. Not a king by right, but by duty.
And the fire had answered.