Dragons screeched their high-pitched roars, becoming deafening.
Amon sat alone within his room, the rest of the house asleep yet within the living room, in front of the 80-inch television casting a cold blue wash across his face. His eyes locked into the sky, tearing itself apart on the screen, wings gigantic enough to crumble houses, be torn asunder with smoke and fire engulfing thousands, with scales smashing together like thunder being thrown by gods.
Dragon against dragon.
He leaned forward without realizing it, finger digging into his knees as one beast clamped its jaws around another's throat. The sound was sickening - The wet, crushing, and final sound echoed through the cheap speaker.
The dragons spiraled downwards thogether wingsd shredded, blood and flame raining upon the battlefield below.
It was too much as a sudden ache struck in his chest.
His hand crasped around his chest, trying to claw at his heart as the feeling of pain washed over his body. As he collapsed to the floor, he looked at the television still playing the mighty battle and began thinking of his life.
He had devoured the book years ago. Then again. Then again. He knew the names like family, the wars like personal memories. He knew which kings failed, which ones burned, which were remembered only because history had no choice.
But it was the dragons he loved.
The episode ended. Credits rolled. Silence filled the room.
Amon didn't move.
His heart still hammered as if he had been falling through smoke and fire, as if the screams still echoed in his bones. He leaned back slowly, staring at the ceiling, breath unsteady.
"If only…" he murmured through laboured breaths as the pain within his chest reached a crescendo.
The words hung in the air.
The room felt… cold.
The hum of electricity softened, stretched, and became something else, deeper, heavier. The air pressed down on his chest, not painful like unseen eyes turning toward him all at once.
His eyelids grew heavy. Too heavy.
The television went dark.
So did everything else.
He dreamed of fire.
Not the kind that flickers, but the kind that dominates. Scales the size of towers, blacker than night itself. Wings that erased the sun when they spread. A sky split open by flame, a land bending beneath dragonshadow.
And then - Pain.
White-hot and sudden, ripping through him before he could brace for it.
Amon gasped.
Air burned his lungs as if he'd never breathed before. Noise crashed over him, shouts, cries, voices thick with awe and panic. His body jerked helplessly, skin raw and over-sensitive as cold air kissed him.
Light stabbed his eyes.
Hands grabbed him, firm, urgent, careful all at once.
"A boy!" someone cried, voice trembling with disbelief. "A prince!"
A woman laughed weakly, breathless and exhausted, joy cutting through pain.
"He's beautiful," she whispered. "Baelon… he's perfect."
Amon tried to scream.
What came out was a newborn's cry, thin, helpless, alive.
He was pulled into warmth, pressed against a pounding heartbeat that felt impossibly strong. The scent overwhelmed him: blood, sweat, smoke, something ancient and sharp, like fire carried by the wind.
A man spoke above him, voice shaking.
"Our son," he said. "Our firstborn."
Amon's thoughts were shattered.
'No.. This isn't real.'
But the heartbeat didn't fade.
The warmth didn't disappear.
And as darkness took him again, one terrible truth wrapped itself around his soul like claws.
This was not a dream.
Time passed like drifting embers.
Amon learned the world in pieces, sound before sight, touch before understanding. Voices came first, tones and rhythms long before words made sense. Yet beneath it all, memory refused to die.
He remembered dragons.
And slowly, painfully, he remembered himself.
The woman who held him most was warmth and steel wrapped together. Fragile in body, unbreakable in will. Her laughter echoed through stone halls even when exhaustion lined her face. She smelled of smoke and metal and something faintly sweet.
His mother.
The man was fire held in check, broad, loud, terrifying when anger slipped its leash. He lifted Amon effortlessly, pride blazing in his eyes as if the boy were already a victory.
His father.
They were beautiful. Unfairly so.
Silver-gold hair caught torchlight like molten metal. Violet eyes, sharp, assessing, missing nothing. Even as a child, Amon felt it in his blood: House Targaryen.
The name rang inside him like a bell that had been struck too hard.
He grew quickly. Too quickly.
He walked early. Spoke early. Watched. He learned when to smile, when to bow, and when to stay silent. He learned how to hide the storm beneath calm eyes.
Then came his brothers.
Viserys first, soft, gentle, wide-eyed. When the baby was placed beside him, Amon felt no envy.
Only certainty.
I am the eldest.
Daemon followed, fire from his first breath. Where Viserys clung, Daemon struck. Where Viserys hesitated, Daemon lunged at the world as it owed him something.
As the years passed, Amon grew taller than both. Broader. Sharper.
He trained harder. Learned faster. Watched the court not as a child, but as a hunter studying terrain. History became warnings.
And always, in the distance, he felt them.
The dragons.
Even before he saw one, they pulled at him, low and resonant, deep in his bones. When Balerion's name was spoken, the air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Mine, something inside him whispered.
Why shouldn't he believe in destiny?
He had already lived the story once.
Steel whispered as he moved.
Black armor wrapped around him, custom-forged, dark as midnight, and edged in red like fresh blood. It fit perfectly, too perfectly, as if it had always been waiting for him. A dragon sigil rested on his chest, subtle but undeniable.
The hall was vast.
Stone pillars stretched into shadow. Banners heavy with centuries loomed overhead. The air buzzed with expectation, silk rustling, voices hushed.
All eyes found him.
Amon stood tall, taller than Viserys, broader than Daemon. He did not try to command attention. He simply had it.
The eldest son.
The room knew it. He felt it in the nods of warriors, the calculating gazes of nobles already weighing futures.
Viserys stood nearby, hands clasped too tightly, smile strained. Daemon leaned against a pillar, restless, amused, dangerous.
Then the king entered.
Silence fell like a blade.
The words came, formal, measured.
"Heir to the Iron Throne… Viserys Targaryen."
For a heartbeat, the world stopped.
Something inside Amon tore open.
The hall erupted, not in cheers, but in confusion. Voices rose. Lords stepped forward, anger and disbelief clashing.
"The eldest stands before us!"
"This defies tradition!"
"The realm expects-"
Amon heard none of it.
Cold rage flooded him. Not the hot fury of youth, but something older. Quieter. A betrayal not just by men, but by fate itself.
The future he had trusted had lied.
He turned away before anyone could see the storm in his eyes.
The wind howled.
Balerion shifted as Amon approached, his vast form moving like a mountain coming alive. Black scales drank the light, ancient and scarred, each one a memory of conquest. One massive eye opened, burning, intelligent.
Recognition flared.
Amon mounted without hesitation.
Armor locked into place as if it belonged nowhere else. His breath came fast, chest tight with fury and grief and something dangerously close to joy.
He threw back his head and roared.
Not a scream.
A promise.
Balerion answered.
The sound shook the world. Stone trembled. Men stumbled back in terror as wings unfurled, blotting out light itself.
Fire curled between jagged teeth.
The dragon leapt, and with it the ground vanished.
Wind tore at Amon as they climbed higher, faster, until the castle shrank into nothing. The realm that had rejected him became a scatter of lights beneath cloud and flame.
He turned east.
Away from thrones.
Away from lies.
Toward fire, power, and a future that would not deny him again.
Amon did not look back.