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The shore of Dragonstone
The sea was restless that morning; dark waves rolled and broke against jagged black rocks as a lone ship cut through the waters off the coast of Dragonstone, its hull creaking softly beneath the strain of wind and tide.
Its sail bore no sigil of Westeros; instead, a burning red heart was stitched into black cloth, surrounded by licking orange flames—the mark of R'hllor, the Lord of Light.
The ship slowed as it approached the shadow of the island.
Above them, Dragonstone loomed.
A fortress of fused black stone, its towers twisted into shapes of dragons that seemed more grown than built. Smoke curled faintly from vents in the rock, and the air itself felt warmer, as if the island still remembered the fires that had built and forged it.
On the beach stood Mrya, her red dress flowing like fire in the sea breeze, her emerald-green eye watching as rowboats cut through the waves and landed on the gravel beach.
"Dragonstone," a voice said, low and thoughtful. "A fitting seat for one chosen by our lord's flame." A man called out, walking up the beach, as the other began pulling the smaller ships further up the beach.
The man who joined her was older, his hair streaked with grey, his face lined by years and firelight alike. His robes matched hers—deep red, trimmed in gold thread.
"Nash," she greeted at last.
He inclined his head slightly.
"We heard the tales," he said. "Dragons in the sky. Lords bending the knee. Aegon Targaryen was crowned king before the eyes of minor lords." His lips curved faintly. "You were successful."
Myra chuckled softly. "No," she said. "Not yet truly."
Nash frowned slightly. "Our lord's chosen trusts you, does he not?"
"He is curious yet cautious," Myra corrected gently. "He seeks my counsel from time to time, but trust, I fear, will be a long and precarious road." Her eyes flicked briefly toward the castle. "As it should be."
Nash studied her for a moment. "Then why are we here?" Myra turned fully now, the wind catching her robes as she faced him.
"Because conquest breeds opportunity," she said. "Aegon's war has begun, and in it he has found use for us."
Nash's brow furrowed. "What use?"
Myra gestured toward Dragonstone. "The castle," she said. "And even the island itself, he has even allowed us access to the dragonmount, though under the observation of the dragonkeepers."
Nash nodded, his gaze looking curiously upon the lone volcano and the black stone castle. "Fused black stone," he murmured, "forged in dragon fire and twisted by spells long forgotten; I suspect these are but some of the secrets he wishes to uncover."
Myra nodded.
"Our future king believes there are even more secrets buried here. Knowledge lost when Valyria fell." Her voice lowered slightly. "And I believe he is correct."
But Myra was not finished.
"There is another task," she said, "a far more important one."
Nash stood as still as a statue, looking back at her. "What task?" he asked almost bluntly.
For the first time, something sharper entered Myra's emerald green eyes.
"The Golden Sun illuminates all but has also cast its shadow," she said quietly. "And in doing so… it has hindered our king."
Nash's hand tightened slightly at his side. "…how?"
"He cannot father a line," Myra said plainly. "Not as he should or as he must."
The words hung heavy between them.
"To meddle in such things…" Nash said carefully; his fingers trembled, just slightly. "It is to draw the gaze of powers best left undisturbed."
Myra did not deny it; instead, she stepped closer to Nash, yet her eyes lifted to the sky and to Nash even beyond it.
"We have all seen it," she said, her voice becoming distant and old. "In the flame and shadow." Her emerald eyes fell on Nash. He swore he saw an inferno inside them. "In the quiet moments between breaths."
Her voice softened—but only slightly.
"The Prince That Was Promised will be born of fire and blood... of salt and ash; the blood of the dragon must flow true," Myra finished.
Silence followed.
---
Harrenhal
Harrenhal loomed around him in all its monstrous glory—five great towers clawing at the sky like the blackened fingers of a giant. The walls were thick enough to defy any engine of war ever devised by man, built of basalt and sweat and the blood of the Riverlands.
Below him, the world seemed small.
"A thousand men?" one captain scoffed, leaning on a salt-stained axe. "Perhaps less. They look like ants in the tall grass."
Harren the Black laughed, a deep, booming sound that carried over the parapets. His black armor drank in the light, as always, and the wind tugged at his grey hair as he rested both gauntleted hands upon the stone. Let the boy come. Let him see who the King of the Isles and Rivers truly was; let him see why all feared the Ironborn.
Every wall was manned.
Archers stood ready along the parapets, arrows stacked high.
Cauldrons of oil and water simmered over roaring fires, ready to be poured upon any fool who dared approach the gates.
The gatehouse itself—massive, iron-bound, layered in murder holes and reinforced beams—could withstand battering rams for months, years even.
And beyond that?
Trebuchets.
Catapults.
All prepared, manned, and waiting.
Even if the dragonlord sought to build siege engines, the surrounding lands had already been stripped bare where it mattered—and any attempt would be smashed long before it threatened the walls.
He knew the Riverlords had turned. He knew the Tullys were in open revolt, hunting his reavers through the woods like beasts. But within these walls, he was unassailable. The granaries were full; the God's Eye provided endless water. A siege? He would welcome it. Let Aegon sit in the mud until he flew away with his beast.
murmur rose from the line of archers. A single rider was approaching beneath a banner of truce.
The three-headed dragon.
Harren's smile was thin and cruel. "Bold," he muttered. "Or foolish. Bring him to the gates. I will hear what this dragon-prince has to say... before I leave him and his men to starve outside my walls."
---
The Parley
The gates of Harrenhal groaned as they opened—not fully, never fully—but just enough to admit a single group of riders out from beneath the shadow of the greatest fortress ever raised in Westeros.
Outside, they met another group of riders bearing a black banner with a red three-headed dragon.
Then the two kings rode forward on their steeds, king met king face to face.
Harren the Black was an older man in his late sixties, yet despite his advanced age, he held himself confidently; his iron-grey eyes shone with arrogance, his black armor seemed to drink in the daylight, and on his head was the driftwood crown.
Aegon Targaryen was his complete opposite: young, handsome, some would even say beautiful, with deep violet eyes and a clean-cut face with a circlet of dark Valyrian steel, set with large, square-cut rubies, on his head of short silver-white hair, wearing a suit of Valyrian Steel that not only drank in the light of the sun but shone it back at all who looked upon him, making the armor look like it was rippling like molten metal.
The Blood of the Dragon met eyes with the Kin of the drowned god; Valyrian violet eyes looked upon Ironborn grey, and for a moment, nothing moved but the wind.
Then Harren spoke, his voice carrying with unmatched confidence.
"So," he called out, "the would-be king comes crawling to my gate."
Aegon's voice rose in answer—calm, measured, carrying just as far.
"I have come to offer terms."
"Speak them then," the Black King said. "Before I grow bored."
Aegon rested one hand lightly on the pommel of Blackfyre.
"Yield now," he said, "and you may remain Lord of the Iron Islands. Yield now, and your sons will live to rule after you. I have eight thousand men outside your walls."
Harren leaned forward slightly, his gauntleted hands gripping the reins of his saddle.
"What is outside my walls is of no concern to me," he said, his voice on the edge of amusement. "Those walls are strong and thick."
Aegon tilted his head, as if considering the monstrous stone fortress itself for the first time.
"But not so high as to keep out dragons," he replied. "Dragons fly."
That brought silence; even the wind seemed to be still.
Then Harren chuckled, shaking his head in disappointment as if he were explaining something simple to a child who made a mistake.
"I built in stone," he said, his voice certain and unshaken. "Stone does not burn."
For a heartbeat, the two men simply looked at one another.
Then Aegon spoke again.
"When the sun sets," he said almost quietly, yet his voice reached everyone's ears, "your line shall end."
Harren barked a laugh, turning away on his horse as if the matter were already beneath him, his men following.
"Then we shall dine well before nightfall," he called over his shoulder. "You may watch from above."
The laughter continued louder now as men joined their king, the volume bolstered by their king's confidence as the gates began to close. Aegon did not move until they were nearly shut; then, at last, he turned his horse.
---
The Burning
I sat Balerion astride, the world spread out around us like a painting: dark fields, winding rivers, and at its center, the black mass of Harrenhal.
Even from this distance, it dominated the land.
Five towers clawed at the heavens, their silhouettes jagged against the last dying light of the sun. Torchlight flickered along its walls, tiny pinpricks of gold against black stone, like stars trapped upon the earth.
Within those walls, they feasted.
I could hear them.
Faint, but carried on the wind—laughter, shouting, the dull roar of men who believed themselves safe. The Ironborn celebrated their strength, their ancestors, and their king.
I watched as the last light of the sun bled across the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of gold, pink, and deepening violet. Above us, the first stars had already begun to emerge as the sky became a cold blue; the moon was a dim, distant, and indifferent witness to what was to come.
I exhaled slowly.
"So we are but puppets to fate," I murmured.
Beneath me, Balerion shifted.
The Black Dread was not still—not truly. Even at rest, there was a tension in him, like a drawn bowstring waiting to be loosed. I could feel it through the saddle, through the bond we shared, his anticipation.
"I knew this was going to happen," I continued softly, though whether I spoke to Balerion or to myself, I could not say. "I knew the moment I landed off the shore of Dragonstone that I was destined to conquer and wage war not just here but amongst the stars, and I walk that path willingly because I also know there is no peaceful path to walk in this universe."
*GRRRRRR* *HISSS*
The colossal head of Balerion turned one of his red eyes, stared... no, gazed into mine, and I felt something through our bond...
Then, suddenly, I was no longer in the Riverlands but in a familiar, dark, rocky cave, and before me was a child looking at me.
I knew immediately this was a vision I'd had plenty of reason to recognize, and that this child was me.
'This was when I first claimed Balerion, but it must be from his perspective.' I thought as my younger self began to speak.
"I am Aegon," I had said softly in High Valyrian. "Son of Aerion. Blood of Valyria. Born of stars."
And I could feel in this moment that Balerion understood my words not like a dog, cat, or other domesticated animal understood commands, but he understood High Valyrian.
"I do not come to tame you," I said. "I come to find a partner, one with fire like my own."
The familiar silence stretched as I remembered this moment when the bond first formed, and I saw the vision of the future conquest.
'Did Balerion also have a vision?' I wondered to myself, but I didn't wait long to see as my vision became a world of roaring, endless fire.
. . .
My eyes opened, and the world came crashing down on me like a physical blow. My chest ached, and my lungs burned as if I had been breathing in smoke, and for the first time in my new life, heat and warmth were uncomfortable.
Yet the powerful, fiery gaze of Balerion held me in place; our bond, and the ethereal energy coursing through it, calmed my twin beating hearts.
For a few long yet short moments, we gazed into each other's eyes but did not speak through words, but through our bond that bound not just our minds or emotions but souls, and we spoke on a level that could not be defined by words alone.
Yet still I needed to speak, for I had a promise to keep and fate and history to finish.
"Sōvēs Balerion." (Fly Balerion)
And Balerion answered with a roar that shook the foundations of all things, as in a single powerful leap. The Black Dread threw itself into its unfurling, casting the air like fishing nets casting schools of fish.
The air howled like it was in pain as Balerion's wings forced it to carry his colossal weight higher and higher into the night sky, and soon the few clouds became dark blurs as Balerion urged him higher and higher, far beyond the clouds, and not the first time as the air grew cold and thin, I reached out my gauntleted hand for the cold, indifferent stars, wishing to claim them for myself.
I wanted them. Balerion felt my wish and ambition and roared in rage, being unable to get me to those stars we were destined to claim.
So we fell back to the earth below, away from the stars for now, for we had a world to conquer first, and it all started now as the five towers of Harrenhal reached upward like five fingers of a hand.
And for a moment I imagined them as such; they were Harren the blacks ambition made manifest, his hand grasping the stars I am meant to claim, and I felt unbridled fury and wrath as I roared through my mind, body, and soul...
Dracarys!!!
Then, the world changed.
The fire did not come as a plume, but as a tide. It was black—a living, consuming shadow, void of light—yet shot through with threads of blood-red that coiled and spiraled within the darkness. It was not the bright, yellow flame of a common campfire. This was old fire, deep fire, born of the earth's core and the magic of Old Valyria.
The torrent struck the central tower, the one they called the Kingspyre.
Harren had boasted that stone does not burn, and he was right. Stone didn't burn. It did not crack. It did not fall.
Instead, the monumental blocks of basalt and granite seemed to sigh.
I watched as the black tide washed over the battlements. For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then, a low, tectonic groan began to rise from the very foundations of the fortress.
The heat was so intense it warped the air, making the five monstrous towers shimmer like a mirage. I saw the Ironborn on the walls—those tiny, arrogant ants who had laughed at me hours ago—simply disappear. They did not burn; they dissolved, turning to ash that was immediately consumed by the inferno.
Balerion banked, his massive wings casting the air like a net as we spiraled down. The black fire continued to pour from his throat, a constant stream that bathed the entire upper keep.
The Kingspyre was changing color. It was no longer black; it was a deep, pulsating cherry-red. The monstrous blocks of stone were softening. They were becoming malleable. They were... weeping.
A single, colossal droplet of molten basalt, the size of a battering ram, broke free from the peak of the tower and began to roll down the face of the keep, consuming the battlements below it.
Harrenhal was not falling. It was becoming a candle.
The five towers were no longer fingers grasping for the stars; they were now blackened, melted stumps. The black fire didn't smash the walls; it covered them, seeped into them. I could almost hear the grand halls—the kitchens, the armories, the feast-halls where they had toasted their safety—turning into the world's greatest oven.
Harren Hoare had built his castle to withstand a siege of a thousand years. I had just turned it into a tomb.