Chapter Text
King Jaehaerys I stood on the vast balcony of his bedchamber, breathing in the sulphur-tinged, fogged air of Dragonstone. The old king welcomed the change. Away from the stink and decay of King’s Landing, his mind and heart felt lighter than they had in years. They had arrived hours ago, and Vermithor and Vhagar had taken off, probably resting somewhere familiar to them after all—this had been their home long before the Dragonpit in King’s Landing.
Baelon excused himself to get some rest before supper. He knew his small council would probably be in an uproar at his and Baelon’s sudden departure, but he had full trust in Barth to keep things afloat for a few days.
Being back in Dragonstone, in the king’s chamber at Storm’s Drum for the first time in years, Jaehaerys felt a swell of nostalgia. He remembered taking a small respite from his reign for one whole moon with Alyssane and their children—Aemon, Baelon, Alyssa, Maegelle, Vaegon—all under ten. They had taken refuge at Dragonstone to celebrate the first name day of his youngest son, Vaegon. Away from court and its rigid rules, it had been one of the best times he had spent since ascending the throne.
He still remembered Alyssa chasing after her elder brothers in the gardens while Maegelle toddled around trying to catch butterflies, and little Vaegon snoozed on a velvet throw spread across the grass. He and Alyssane had stolen sweet kisses, celebrating the new life growing in her womb.
So deep was he in these memories that he almost did not hear the guard announcing the arrival of his son.
“Father, would you like to dine with me? Or shall I have your meal brought here?” Baelon asked gently, his hand resting lightly on the doorframe.
Jaehaerys studied him for a moment, noting the tension in his posture, the lines of worry around his eyes. He nodded, signaling him to lead the way. My son carries more than his age would warrant, he thought, yet he bears it with the steadiness of a true Targaryen.
Baelon, walking ahead, felt the weight of his father’s gaze. He could see the burden on Jaehaerys’ shoulders, the gravity of unmade decisions, and wondered if the king even knew what needed to be done. This was not an enemy to fight—it was family: his wife, his granddaughters, his great-grandchildren.
They ate in contemplative, comfortable silence, words unnecessary. Baelon felt the simple relief of sharing space with his father, free of courtly scheming or political machinations. Jaehaerys, for his part, let the quiet settle around him like a balm, a rare moment of peace.
That night, on Dragonstone, the gods Jaehaerys had long forsaken seemed at last to take pity on him—not for him, but for House Targaryen, for the survival of the bloodline that would aid the world when the great winter came. They came not gently, but with fire, shadow, and signs older than the Seven themselves.
First, he beheld a golden dragon, newly hatched, radiant as the dawn yet trembling like the fragile heart of the world. Its scales shimmered with promise, and for a moment, hope seemed to pierce the darkness.
Then the vision shifted. He stood upon a desolate highland, jagged tors scattered like broken teeth, and the wind tore at him with bitter fingers. From a bronze-lined fortress echoed a dragon’s roar—angry, imprisoned, and unyielding. Its cry swallowed all else: the clash of hooves, the clang of steel, the mocking laughter of men. Jaehaerys felt the dragon’s suffering as a weight upon his chest, a grief older than memory.
The scene twisted. King’s Landing rose before him, gleaming in hollow sunlight. Wings beat above, a falcon diving toward a nest. Within it lay countless eggs—rotting, cracked, stinking of decay and false promise. Before it could rise, shadow fell, and the falcon was torn down. The eggs remained, silent and unyielding, a testament to what could not be saved.
Then a tower appeared, tall and pale, draped in green scales. A dragon, more serpent than wyrm, coiled around it. Its mouth spewed venom, not flame, and each drop struck the people below, twisting their faces with lies, fear, and treachery. The city burned not with fire, but with deceit.
Finally, darkness swallowed all. Upon the Iron Throne squirmed a worm—pale, glistening, corrupt. It fed upon the steel, gnawing the throne from within, pulsing with unholy life. Around it hissed serpents, coiling and crawling, each one a whisper of betrayal. From the grass nearby, a small green snake slithered—harmless, nimble. But when the crown touched its head, it transformed: eyes blackened, fangs lengthened, its belly swelled with venom. It became a serpent of deceit, heavy with poison, a mockery of kingship and birthright.
Through it all, the golden hatchling remained in his vision—a fragile spark, a reminder of what was still unbroken. But the worm and serpent, the falcon and the chained dragon, loomed larger, shaping a future fraught with peril, deceit, and fire.
Jaehaerys awoke gasping, the taste of rust and ash on his tongue, the shadows of his visions lingering in the corners of his mind.
The old king vomited violently beside the bed, the noise alarming his Kingsguard, who rushed into the chamber. They found the king in the most disgraceful state ever witnessed—heaving beside his bed, drenched in sweat and tears. Maids and maesters were summoned immediately, while the Kingsguard helped their king, bringing a bucket as Jaehaerys’ skin burned.
Baelon woke before they could knock, his warrior’s alertness honed by years of vigilance.
“What is the meaning of this?” he roared, rushing to his father’s side. His eyes roamed the chamber, taking in the mess, the smell, the panic.
“The king is unwell,” they answered.
Baelon knelt beside him, gripping Jaehaerys’ shoulder gently. “Father, speak to me. Tell me what ails you,” he urged, though his voice trembled with worry.
The king’s eyes fluttered open, haunted and distant. Baelon had never seen him like this, broken not by sword, nor betrayal, but by something unseen and profound.
Maester Culiper pressed a cool cloth to Jaehaerys’ forehead. “I have never witnessed this before,” he said carefully, “but the king suffers the aftermath of a dragon dream.”
Baelon stiffened. Dragon dreams. He knew the Targaryens’ history: out of all the noble families of Valyria, only they were gifted with them—visions that had safeguarded their line through the destruction of Old Valyria. Dragons were power and might, yes, but dreams had been their salvation.
Still shocked, Baelon refused the maester’s offer to keep vigil. He would not leave his father’s side—not tonight. He remained, silent, watching, guarding, absorbing the tremors of fear and dread that rippled through Jaehaerys’ body.
Peaceful sleep reclaimed the old king only at dawn. The sun rose gray and wounded over Dragonstone, as though the sky itself had not slept. The coals in the brazier had long since cooled.
Jaehaerys opened his eyes to find Baelon reading a thick tome and speaking quietly with the maesters. He tried to sit. Baelon was instantly at his side.
“Father, are you well?” he asked, voice steady now, though worry lingered at its edges.
Jaehaerys studied his son. Steadfast. Loyal. True. And yet the weight of the visions lingered, shadowing his expression. “Bath first. Light meal afterward,” he said, each word deliberate. “And then… we must speak.”
When he emerged, dressed in simple woollen robes fit for Dragonstone’s sea winds, Baelon waited by the hearth with the tense stillness of a drawn bow. The king approached and commanded quietly, “Call the Maester, and then sit with me.”
Baelon obeyed.
The king stared into the fire, watching it twist and snap along the black stone. For a long while, only the crackling of logs and the distant roar of the sea filled the chamber.
When Maester Culiper arrived, Jaehaerys spoke, his voice thin, far too thin for a man who had ruled nearly forty years. The edict he issued shocked both Baelon and the maester. Known neither for kindness as a father nor as a husband, the king now acted with the intent to secure his family’s future—a future that, he hoped, the gods would bless.
The dragons of Dragonstone roared all at once.
Reckoning would come.