Baelon looked around and found only a stifling darkness pressing in on him from all sides.
Still, it was not the suffocating black of blindness as flames licked the air from the iron braziers lining the walls along the rugged tunnel.
Fortunately, his other senses were far less inhibited. As he breathed in, he could taste the bitter air, carrying with it the tang of sulphur that scratched the back of his throat.
All of it…was familiar. Too familiar.
"The Dragonpit?" Helaena murmured beside him.
Baelon turned his head slightly toward her, eyes tracing the curve of the chamber, the vaulted ceiling lost in darkness above.
"That is what it seems…" He replied, lips pressing into a thin line.
No blood. No gore. No death.
All that existed within these walls were sullen dragonkeepers with soot-stained hands and hollow eyes, wilful dragons chained beneath the earth, and the ever-present stench of ash and scorched stone.
Did the Gods perhaps decide to bestow him mercy for tonight's dream?
Still, his hand remained entwined with Helaena's.
And, with little to do standing there, they began to walk. Their steps echoed softly across the warm stone floor.
They walked like that for a time, weaving between pillars scorched black by dragonfire, the braziers hissing softly as resin burned and melted within them.
"Will we go off and fight New Ghis after we wake?" Helaena asked at last, tilting her head up toward him.
Her tone was light, but Baelon knew her too well. Beneath it lay their shared memory of Rhevos' announcement, how war had fallen upon them once more.
He remembered how, after that revelation, Dragon's Bay had stirred like a roused anthill.
Advisors had gathered until the council chamber overflowed with voices and clashing opinions. Plans had been drawn, discarded, redrawn.
By the time they had adjourned, the sky beyond the windows had darkened to a mournful purple as dusk claimed the day.
Baelon nodded slowly. "Yes."
Then, after a heartbeat's pause, he added, "But… you will have to stay behind. Here. In Dragon's Bay."
The small hand in his tightened, her fingers curling in protest. Though dreams dulled pain, they did nothing to blunt emotion.
He winced inwardly.
"You plan to desert me and run off in your grand conquest…" Helaena said, her voice as gentle and quiet as ever, yet it filled Baelon with a sense of dread all the same. She stopped walking and turned to face him, silver-gold hair catching the brazier light. "Just like you did in Valyria before?"
The words struck deeper than any blade.
"I did not mean for that," he began, then faltered as he thought of prior discussions.
Conquest.
Earlier, their advisors had spoken of methods of attack. Timelines. Contingencies. Strategies for after the war were spoken of as calmly as one might discuss trade tariffs.
No one questioned victory; it was treated as inevitable.
And from that certainty had come another thought, one Baelon had not voiced aloud until it had already taken root.
Annexation.
At first, he had resisted it. Dragon's Bay had been enough. As much as he joked to Helaena, he was no conqueror.
Carving out this small edge of the known world was enough for them and their family.
Alas, the Free Cities had made their intentions clear through embargoes, sabotage, and alliances. Their suppression and spite had taught him an old lesson anew.
There was no wisdom in placing one's future in another's mercy.
He had learned that lesson once as a powerless child. He had learned it again through dreams soaked in fire and blood.
'But to annex these lands…' Baelon glanced at Helaena, her eyes searching his face for reassurance. 'To truly take them…'
Scenes rose in his mind mercilessly: cities burning, streets slick with blood, slave masters dragged from their palaces kicking and screaming.
New Ghis would not bow willingly. Nor Yunkai. Nor Meereen. They would fight until forced into submission. At least, the slave masters would.
'I would probably have to make the cities cry rivers of blood.' His jaw tightened.
After all, men who built their power on chains never surrendered them peacefully.
"I am not deserting you," he said finally, softer now. "I am simply making sure there is something worth coming back to. If you follow me, Dragon's Bay would be without a leader."
Helaena did not respond at once. She only squeezed his hand once more, firmly this time.
Nevertheless, Baelon found himself reluctant to have his hands stained in so much blood.
Even if the slave masters were something less than human in the way they treated others, the thought of drowning cities in fire and fear unsettled him in a way he could not easily dismiss.
'If only there was a way to avoid it…' He sighed inwardly.
Turning toward quiet Helaena, he leaned down and pressed a quick, gentle kiss to her cheek. "Come now, my sweet Helaena. You know that one of us has to stay behind."
She did not immediately look at him, her displeasure still plain in her quiet. Baelon, sensing he had not yet convinced her, pressed on.
"What would happen if Dragon's Bay were attacked while both of us were gone?" He asked quietly. "Someone would need to steady the people. Someone would need to act swiftly, use the dragons if necessary, to crush the threat before it spreads."
He squeezed her hand, earnest now. "Please… it would be such a shame if all our work here ended because of a single well-timed strike. The people would suffer most of all. Slavery would return before the ashes even cooled."
Then, shamelessly, he resorted to his final tactic.
His violet eyes softened, widening just enough to look vulnerable.
The usual sharpness faded, replaced by something akin to the gaze of a puppy.
They stopped walking.
Two pairs of violet eyes locked onto one another, mirror images reflecting the same stubbornness, the same affection, the same unspoken fear of loss.
"Fine," Helaena huffed at last, turning her face away in muted protest. Even then, her eyes lingered on him from the corner of her vision. "You are learning far too much from our dear Mother with words like those."
"Thank you. I knew you would agree," Baelon said at once, pointedly ignoring the barb. He pulled her into a broad embrace, arms wrapping around her with relief. "Aren't you the best wife anyone could ask for?"
"We are not yet wed. Nor have we consummated anything," she replied coolly as she broke free, narrowing her eyes at him.
"Come now," Baelon said lightly, reclaiming her hand with a grin. "A promise is a promise. 'Tis but a matter of time?"
Still, his jest was immediately drowned by a violent cacophony.
Roars. Shouts. Footsteps.
They overlapped in eerie unity as the ground beneath their feet quivered.
Baelon stiffened, instinctively pulling Helaena closer as the noise swelled.
The pair stared at one another, confusion flickering between their mirrored violet eyes until both felt it at once.
It was here.
The dream was cresting, reaching its zenith, like a tide drawn by a cruel winter's moon.
Then, from one of the adjoining chambers came a sudden roar, not of dragonfire, but of men. A mass of smallfolk burst forth from the darkness, spilling into the pit in droves.
They came screaming, shoving, tripping over one another in their frenzy, faces twisted with terror and zeal in equal measure.
They carried whatever their hands had found.
Pitchforks slick with old rust. Butcher knives were stolen from kitchens. Cleavers, clubs, iron pokers, broken tools. Some bore stones wrapped in cloth, others torches that spat sparks and oily smoke.
The dragonkeepers never stood a chance.
Grey-robed figures were swallowed by the surge. One was dragged down, his cry cut short as boots crushed his chest.
Another was struck from behind, skull splitting open against stone.
Hooks caught flesh. Knives flashed. Blood sprayed warm and bright against the blackened walls as the keepers were butchered where they stood, men who had spent their lives tending dragons, dying beneath the hands of those they once protected.
Baelon felt the horde pass through him and Helaena, bodies phasing through their immaterial forms like steel through smoke.
Though untouched, both recoiled instinctively, hearts pounding as the living flood streamed on.
Alas, the chaos did not cease.
Men fell and were trampled underfoot, screams turning to wet, gurgling sounds before vanishing entirely. The Dragonpit became a moving grave, bodies piling even as the mass surged forward.
Baelon pulled Helaena with him, forcing their way through the tunnels alongside the torrent. They could barely see one another through the press, faces flashing in and out of view between frantic strangers and flailing limbs.
Then, suddenly, the crowd slowed.
They split into a vast cavern and came to a halt, as though struck by an invisible wall.
A roar answered their silence.
A deep, thunderous roar, shaking dust from the ceiling.
Then—
Fire bloomed.
Dragonflame washed across the stone in a blinding wave, painting the chamber in suffering. Men shrieked as flesh blackened, as hair ignited, as bodies collapsed into smouldering heaps.
As Baelon and Helaena pushed closer, the scene finally came into focus.
A dragon stood before them.
Silver-grey scales shimmered beneath the firelight, wings half-spread, chest heaving with furious breath. Not as immense nor as resplendent as Silverwing, but still unmistakably glorious.
Seasmoke.
The name surfaced in Baelon's mind. He remembered the dragon at Laena's funeral, coiling through the sky in mourning. Laenor's dragon. His uncle's bond.
For a fleeting, absurd moment, Baelon wondered again what fate had truly befallen that poor sword-swallower for his dragon to end up here.
The crowd, however, felt none of a Targaryen's awe.
They raised their weapons, hundreds upon hundreds of them, a jagged forest of iron and wood.
'Surely… they don't intend—' Baelon could not finish the thought.
To attack a dragon with this…rabble? It was madness. Pure, suicidal madness.
They would fare better trying to scale the Wall naked, armed with prayers alone.
"Baelon…" Helaena whispered.
Her voice trembled.
He turned instinctively and froze.
She was gesturing, eyes fixed not on the dragon, but on a figure standing upon a pile of broken stone near the cavern's edge.
A man.
He wore a filthy hair shirt, his body gaunt and warped. One arm ended in a ragged stump. His face was shrivelled, eyes burning with fevered intensity.
He seemed more a corpse than a man, but he seemed…familiar?
Too familiar.
Baelon's blood ran cold.
It was the same madman, the preacher who had ranted to the crowds when Meleys' severed head had been paraded through King's Landing in that dream all those years ago.
The figure raised his remaining arm, and his voice boomed across the cavern, cracking with fanatical fervour.
"VALYRIA WAS GODLESS!" He screamed. "AND SO IT FELL!"
The riffraff stirred, murmuring, gripping their weapons tighter.
"These beasts are not gods!" He roared, pointing at Seasmoke. "They are the spawn of the Seven Hells, demons made flesh! Abominations that feast upon our fear and call it dominion!"
Baelon felt his heart leap into his throat.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His pulse hammered wildly, loud enough he swore he could hear it over the din.
Helaena's hand clenched around his, not in anger now, but in worry and confusion. Her eyes glistened, fixed upon the madness unfolding before them.
The man's voice rose higher still, shrill and commanding. He pointed again at Seasmoke, now pacing, froth gathering at the corners of his mouth.
"LOOK UPON IT!" he cried. "LOOK UPON YOUR OPPRESSOR! TODAY, WE SHOW THE GODLESS THAT MEN DO NOT KNEEL TO FIRE!"
For a heartbeat, the crowd hesitated.
Men shifted uneasily. Some faltered, staring at the dragon's blazing eyes, at the scorched corpses still smoking at its feet. Fear warred with faith.
Then teeth were grit.
A scream tore loose.
And then…they charged.
Dragonfire erupted again, washing over the first ranks. Men burned alive, silhouettes writhing within sheets of flame.
Others recoiled, only to scream and surge forward anew, gaunt faces twisted with desperate resolve.
Bodies piled high.
Men clambered over the burning dead, hacking at wings, stabbing at scales, climbing onto Seasmoke's flanks like ants upon a titan. The dragon thrashed, roaring in agony, crushing dozens beneath claw and tail.
Again and again they came.
Baelon had initially thought their efforts would be fruitless. That Seasmoke would simply use its flames and body to press through the crowds.
However, the clanking of chains grounded Baelon's. Just like they did with Seasmoke's limbs.
A horrifying realisation came to his mind.
Seasmoke was trapped. Surrounded by hundreds, if not thousands, of smallfolk.
The chance of it surviving this ordeal was slim to none. And unfortunately, his thoughts came true as the dragon's movements faltered.
Bit by bit, chains rattled. Wings sagged. Searing dragon blood, spilt across stone.
Baelon watched, numb, as Seasmoke reared one final time and unleashed its last breath of fire. The flame sputtered, weakened, before dying entirely.
The light drained from the dragon's eyes.
And, soon, all that remained was silence.
A silence that devoured screams, shouts and thoughts alike.