Baelon Targaryen (193 A.C. Nineth Moon)
King's Landing - royal nursery
Baelon lay comfortably in his crib, warm and drowsy after being grudgingly fed by a wetnurse. He was fed, although his body felt heavy and slow, his mind remained restless, far too awake for an infant.
His gaze drifted, as it so often did, to the egg beside him.
Jade and bronze.
Even after two full moons, it still felt oddly familiar. Not in a way he could name, not in words or memories, but in something deeper. A pull. A quiet presence. As if he had known it before, long before this life.
It reminded him of Ghost.
Not the look of the direwolf, but the bond. That silent understanding. The way Ghost had always been there, watchful, steady, loyal beyond reason. Baelon felt something similar now, faint but undeniable, whenever the egg lay close.
Could it be Rhaegal's egg? The thought flickered through his mind, absurd and tempting both.
No. He knew better than that. Daenerys's eggs had come from the east, from lands far beyond Westeros. They were not meant to be here, not in this time, not in a royal nursery nearly a century earlier.
And yet.
The egg was stone. Everyone knew that. Dragons had been dead for decades, nearly forty years before his birth in this life. Stone could not be warm.
Yet it was.
Whenever his small fingers brushed against the smooth surface, there was heat. Not burning, not painful, but alive. It puzzled him, unsettled him, and fascinated him all at once. His young mind strained against its limits, thoughts slipping away before he could fully grasp them.
Then again, everything about this situation was confusing.
He was nearly a hundred years old before his birth. He had already seen King Daeron the Good with his own eyes. He had met Baelor Breakspear, one of the greatest princes and knights he had admired when he was still Jon Snow, now still young and alive and full of promise.
And yet, all those he truly cared for were gone.
Sansa, his love, was gone. Bran and Arya as well. His friends, too. Sam with his gentle heart. Edd with his dry humor. Tormund with his booming laughter. His brothers-at-arms, his family in all but blood.
They were only memories now.
He swallowed the ache as best he could.
His thoughts were broken as the nursery door opened.
"Be gentle, and not loud, boys." He recognized his mother's voice at once.
Moments later, her head leaned over the crib, joined by two others. Baelon studied them closely. One he recognized almost immediately. Prince Valarr.
He remembered him from before, even if his face was smaller now. That silver lock grazing his forehead stood out sharply against the dark brown hair he had inherited from his father. Valarr's eyes were just as Baelon remembered them, one green, one black, just like Prince Baelor's.
The other boy was unfamiliar.
His features were an odd combination. Red hair, bright and coppery, paired with unmistakable purple eyes. The contrast was striking, enough to make Baelon linger on him longer.
"Valarr, Matarys, meet your cousin, Baelon," his mother said warmly.
Matarys, then. Baelor's second son.
Baelon studied him with interest. The boy likely looked far more like his mother than a Targaryen, save for those purple eyes. Without them, few would guess his blood.
"He looks tiny," Matarys said, awe clear in his voice. "Was I that tiny?"
Valarr laughed softly. "Yes. I held like that, and cousin Daeron too."
Matarys's eyes widened. "Really? Can I hold him, too?"
Oh, crap, Baelon thought faintly.
Still, the boy seemed gentle enough. Baelon stretched his arms out as best he could, awkward and uncoordinated, making soft baby noises he could not suppress.
His mother laughed.
She lifted him carefully and placed him in Matarys's arms. The boy stared at him wide-eyed, hardly daring to breathe.
"Oh, he feels so soft," Matarys said in wonder, brushing a finger gently against Baelon's cheek.
The touch made Baelon giggle without meaning to.
"Good," his mother said. "Hold him like that. While your brother and I get Aerion."
She moved away with Valarr to retrieve the other babe.
Baelon's eyes shifted toward Aerion as he was placed into Valarr's arms. Valarr stroked the infant's head carefully, thoughtful.
"He has hair like his grandfather, and uncles Maekar and Aerys," Valarr said quietly.
Baelon watched Aerion closely.
Brightflame, his mind whispered.
A true mad Targaryen. A man who would burn himself by drinking wildfire thinks it would turn him into a dragon. A shadow that would stretch all the way to Aerys the Second. That madman thought him the same. Thinking of Ser Jaime's words of King Aerys final moments.
The thought made him uneasy.
He wondered about it all. The obsession with dragons. The dragon dreams. The loss of Dayna Dayne, which he knew was meant to come before Ashford. Yet perhaps this time it would not. He was not meant to be here either.
Or perhaps it was Maekar.
A hard father, in the histories. Yet everything Baelon had seen so far pointed toward Maekar being a good man. A stern one, yes, but just. Caring, in his own way.
Had the Redgrass Field changed him? Or was it Dayna's death that broke something inside him?
Baelon did not know.
He could do nothing about it.
He was but a babe.
For now, he could only look, and think, and plan.
And wait.
Chapter 3 : Bryden Rivers
Bryden Rivers 193 A.C. Nineth Moon
Brynden's Bedchambers
Brynden woke, yet knew at once that he was not awake.
This was a dream, one of the old dreams, the ones that came unbidden and lingered long after waking. Dreams of the North, of roots and bone and endless night. Dreams where ice crept like a living thing, and fire did not always bring warmth.
The world around him was half-formed. Snow fell from a sky lit by embers, each flake hissing as it struck the ground. The air smelled of frost and ash, and the wind whispered in a thousand voices, none of them kind.
Then he saw the dragon.
Black as a starless night, vast and terrible, its wings blotting out what little light remained. Hatred surged through him, raw and familiar. Ever since his father had placed that cursed sword into another man's hands, since ambition had been given steel and name, all had begun to rot. Brother against brother. Realm against realm. He expect it long, yet frown the rot fester in the realm. Yet wasn't fatal yet.
The Black Dragon was rot his father had brought given flesh.
But it was not alone.
Another dragon rose to meet it, scales shifting like a storm-tossed banner. Three colors marked it, bleeding into one another as it moved. Fire poured from its jaws in great, roaring sheets, and beneath it flew a sigil that made Brynden's heart burn: a red horse with wings, breath flames charging ever forward, blind and raging.
Opposite them rose from the smoke rose a third dragon, grey as winter stone. Upon its chest was the image of a red wolf's head, fierce and unbowed, clutching a fallen star in its jaws. Its fire was different, steady and pale, not wild but resolute, as if it burned for duty rather than desire.
Above it circled a red raven, its feathers dark as old blood, its single eye sharp and knowing. It cried out again and again, a sound of warning, of judgment, of inevitability.
They struck each other in the sky.
The clash shattered the heavens. Mountains cracked. Waters rained from the sky as fire carved rivers through the land. Brynden felt each blow echo through him, as it shock the world.,
The battle became chaos.
The three-colored dragon descended in a storm of flame. The black dragon answered with shadow and ruin. The wolf-dragon fought between them, struck from both sides, its wings torn, its scales cracking beneath relentless blows. Still it fought on, stubborn as the North itself.
The raven screamed.
One by one, they fell.
The three-colored dragon crashed first, its many fires guttering into ash. The black dragon followed, broken upon the frozen earth, smoke curling from its jaws like a final breath.
At last, the grey dragon began falter, but with a final push, together with the raven, they pierced the red horse with beak and claw.
Then the grey dragon's wings failed. Its fire dimmed. It fell from the sky like a dying star, striking the ground with a sound that split the world.
Silence followed.
Only the raven remained.
The red raven descended slowly, landing beside the fallen dragon. It cried out once, then again, the sound filled with fury, grief, and terrible knowing. It bent its head, touching its beak to the dragon's brow, as if in mourning, as if in farewell.
The world shifted.
The dragon was gone, and in its place knelt a red wolf, tears of blood streaming from its eyes, staining its fur. Around it stood shadows, many of them, tall and watching. Some held spears, swords, and axes, others bore banners. Some carried swords they should never have raised.
The wolf lifted its head and howled. With it cried the other animals scattered across the land, their voices rising in shared pain.
Then the pyre was raised.
The body of the dragon lay upon it once more, wings folded, wounds still glowing faintly. Flames were set, slow and reverent, climbing higher with each breath of wind. Upon the pyre was laid a black sword, dark steel drinking in the fire, and beside it eggs of jade and bronze, their colors gleaming as they melted together.
Then the fire began to roar, brighter and hotter. The light burned Brynden's eyes, yet he could not look away. It grew too bright, and with another blinding flash, the dream broke.
Brynden sprang up in his bed and opened his eyes. He was covered in sweat, his heart hammering in his chest. Beside him lay his love, sleeping peacefully, as the morning sun began to rise into the sky.
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