Chapter Text
The Dragon That Fell From the Sky
I am going to be sick, thought Ser Duncan.
It was always the same. Whenever anxiety caught up with him, it came like a treacherous tide — and now it was no longer the exception, but the rule. Not that he could be blamed. He was about to face the Trial of Seven, as ancient and unforgiving as the gods themselves, and if he lost… he would die. He would die dishonoured, at the end of it all, his name stained and the truth buried beneath steel and blood.
He did not wish to be pessimistic, but in his heart he knew: nothing suggested he would prevail. Not even after his speech — less a calculated address and more a raw outpouring flung before the lords of Westeros. Words torn from his chest, not shaped by strategy. Nothing had seemed enough… until the final moment.
Then His Grace had appeared.
Prince Baelor had ridden onto the field clad in the armour of the Dragon, and the world itself had seemed to hold its breath. The red and black steel gleamed beneath the sun like banked fire, heavy with the legacy of Valyria. Only then did Duncan allow himself hope. If the heir to the Throne could see the truth in him, then justice still lived. Hope still endured. The gods had not abandoned him.
And yet his stomach churned.
Even as he noticed Egg watching him closely. Even standing beside Prince Baelor, beneath the shadow of his imposing presence.
Duncan’s breathing came in harsh, uneven bursts. Blood hammered in his ears like war drums. His body trembled, traitorous, and his hands scarcely obeyed his will. His vision blurred; there was no denying that every instinct screamed for flight. The primitive urge to survive roared within him.
Control yourself. Steady. Control yourself.
He clung to Ser Arlan’s lessons as a man clings to the last blade in the dark. He straightened, recalled honour, bearing, duty. And at the final moment — as if in mockery of the gods — Prince Daeron’s slurred, drunken voice reached his ears.
Then, before the Trial could begin, the world broke into uproar.
“Dragon!” someone cried.
The shout tore through the air.
Aerion smiled before lowering his helm — a sharp, cruel smile, full of dark promises.
Duncan was not surprised. Who, in their right mind, would dare rise against the House of the Dragon? Who, save a fool like him?
“Dragon! Dragon!”
Knights of Lord Ashford burst from the treeline, riding with desperate urgency. Their horses frothed with fear, as terrified as the men themselves. The smallfolk stirred, though they did not flee, paralysed by dread. Knights racing towards nobles, shouting of a dragon — nothing about it spoke of good.
Maekar and Baelor were the first to remove their helms. Egg stood upon the stands, bracing himself against the timber to see more clearly. Duncan, however, had only time to note His Grace Baelor’s eyes narrowing.
Assessment. Attention. Danger.
Could they be Blackfyre supporters?
Then the sound came.
It was not precisely a roar — though it might have been. It was something no man there had ever heard. A deep, ancient sound that seemed to vibrate in the bones of the earth and the bowels of the sky.
What monstrous creature, great enough to produce such a cry, could exist?
Prince Baelor rode to the centre of the field, Maekar meeting him halfway. All lifted their eyes to the heavens as a winged shadow broke through the clouds.
Duncan could not believe it.
Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps this was some final delirium. For no man was prepared for such a sight. Not for that. He did not know what a dragon truly looked like — no one did. Only tales, old tapestries, drawings faded by time. But nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the creature now ruling the skies.
“Bloody hell…” he heard Ser Humfrey mutter.
Lyonel growled something unintelligible.
Aerion and Daeron joined Maekar and His Grace, the Kingsguard forming swiftly behind them. Even Daeron appeared stunned. Egg shouted for his father and began running, trying to descend to the field.
Foolish boy, Duncan thought. Go back. Do not come closer.
The people screamed, seized by awe and terror. Lords rose, straining for a better look, as though fear might be avoided simply by seeing more clearly.
Then the winged monster tore the heavens with its roar and descended.
Wings vast enough to swallow the field in shadow like an eclipse. Had it breathed fire, none would have lived to tell the tale. Its scales were black and red, gleaming like embers, and twisted horns crowned its terrible head.
“It cannot be…” Maekar murmured.
Not from doubt, but from belief. From the understanding that they had never truly returned — not after so many failed attempts by House Targaryen to reclaim its full glory.
The dragon roared as it descended to land. If they had first taken it for a wild beast, the glimpse of a figure upon its back shattered that illusion.
Someone rode it.
The people cried out, divided between wonder and terror. Lords spoke over one another.
Were they Blackfyres?
Or Targaryens themselves, come at last to judge the houses of Westeros?
Duncan removed his helm.
His blue eyes shone, transfixed by the sight.
The dragon glided, and platinum hair flashed against the sky. Upon a nearby hill, the creature landed. A young woman dismounted, descending along the scales without hesitation. Her pale hair was bound in a warrior’s braid; she wore riding leathers in black and red.
A bastard?
A Blackfyre?
Or a true Targaryen, hidden by the Royal House?
“Who is she?” Fossoway asked.
Aerion spurred his horse towards the hill, driven by desire and reverence for dragons. Maekar followed, shouting for him to stop. Baelor was not far behind, drawing the Kingsguard with him.
It was Daeron who vomited.
And Duncan realised then that his trial had been postponed.
Meanwhile, Daenerys Targaryen struggled to clear her blurred vision. One of her children was plainly enraged. They had been caught in a storm shortly after defeating the Lannisters.
She ought to have been bound for Dragonstone.
The silence after the dragon’s landing was not natural. It was imposed — as though the very air had been seized. Daenerys stood motionless upon the hill, her hand resting upon Drogon’s burning scales. Beneath her fingers the dragon pulsed like a living forge — muscle, heat, contained power.
Her lilac eyes swept the field below. And nothing there belonged to her world. The armour was heavier. The helms older. The banners too pristine. There were no scars of war upon the fields, no smoke upon the horizon, no scorched towers she had come to associate with Westeros. It was not the realm she had left. It was the realm before the fall.
Men began to approach. Three of them at the fore — alike in feature, different in soul. One moved with quiet authority, another with martial rigidity, the third with dangerous hunger in his gaze.
They came.
Claiming.
Assessing.
Measuring.
Drogon lifted his head. The growl from his throat was not loud — it was deep. Ancient. The ground trembled beneath boots and hooves. Horses reared, spears wavered, and heat rippled through the air like the promise of fire. Daenerys felt it. This was not mere caution. It was miscalculation. She had no counsellors here. No army. No allies. She had only the sky.
The prince in red armour took another step. Another man laid a hand upon his sword hilt. The third was smiling. That was enough.
Daenerys seized the scales and, in one fluid motion, mounted. Drogon unfurled his wings violently — the sound like sails tearing in a gale. The blast of air hurled backwards sent cloaks snapping and men stumbling like leaves before wind. For a moment that seemed eternal, she looked down. She saw the prince firm as a wall. The warrior ready to fight. The ambitious man burning for possession. They were not her enemies. Not yet. But neither were they her world.
“Sōvēs,” she murmured — Fly — not as a command of fire, but as a reminder of who she was.
Drogon leapt. The ground split beneath his claws. Clods of earth flew.
The roar he gave as he climbed was deafening — not of fury, but dominion. The entire field was swallowed by his shadow. Men fell to their knees. Some wept. Others prayed, making the sign of the Seven.
The dragon soared, cleaving the sky like a living spear. Each beat of his wings was thunder. Each yard gained, a defiance of the centuries that had declared his kind extinct. He was no legend. He was return. And when the black and red silhouette crossed the sun, for a fleeting instant it seemed the star itself had been devoured.
Then she was gone.
She rose above the hills, above distant towers, above the history that sought to claim her — until she was no more than a speck against the endless blue. And then not even that.
The sky lay empty.
Upon the field, the world felt smaller.
Baelor remained motionless, his gaze fixed upon the horizon, as though he might summon back what had departed. There was no fear in his stance — only the heavy comprehension of a man who had just witnessed the impossible.
Maekar broke the silence first. His expression was steel.
This was no miracle.
It was power.
And power without control was threat.
Aerion, by contrast, smiled.
Not a smile of madness.
But of recognition.
As though he had just seen destiny beckon from the heights.
They would argue. They would summon the king. They would hold councils and weave conspiracies. They would weigh bloodlines, prophecies, possibilities.
But in that moment, they were only men who had seen a god fly.
Ser Duncan the Tall felt the weight of it more keenly than any sword he had ever borne.
His Trial of Seven — so feared, so final — had evaporated like mist before the sun.
What was personal honour beside the return of dragons?
He realised his hands no longer trembled.
The fear that had made him wish to retch had been replaced by something greater.
Something vast.
He looked to the sky where the creature had vanished.
He felt no relief.
He felt witness.
Beside him, Egg trembled — but not with fear.
His eyes burned.
“Dunk,” the boy whispered, as though uttering a prayer, “did you see what I saw?”
Duncan nodded slowly.
“I did.”
Egg continued staring at the emptiness left in the clouds.
“They said the dragons died,” he murmured. “They said they would never return.”
The wind stirred the banners.
Duncan thought of tales told by the hearth. Of bones kept in crypts. Of kings who had believed the world already fully written.
“Seems they were wrong.”
Egg drew a long breath.
There was something different in him now.
A flame.
Duncan looked at him.
At the shaven head.
At the eyes reflecting the sky.
At the boy who was more than he seemed.
Perhaps it was only a dream.
Or perhaps it was prophecy.
The knight laid a heavy hand upon the boy’s shoulder.
Above them, the sky remained blue.
The field still smelt faintly of sulphur.
The earth marked by the dragon’s claws smoked lightly, as though holding the echo of fire that might have been. Men spoke in hushed tones. Some still knelt. Others stared at the empty sky as if expecting the creature to return and claim what it had left behind.
Baelor Targaryen removed his gloves with studied calm.
Outwardly, serenity.
Within, storm.
“Send the men back to their positions,” he ordered, his voice firm enough to cut through the murmur. “The Trial is suspended until further notice.”
Maekar approached, helm tucked beneath his arm.
“Suspended?” he repeated quietly, for his brother alone. “A dragon appears from nowhere, a woman claims our name and flies freely above our lands… and you suspend a trial?”
Baelor turned to him.
“Would you have preferred to begin it beneath the shadow of wings?”
Maekar did not answer at once. His gaze swept the field, assessing men, positions, distances.
“I would have preferred to bring her down before she departed.”
“With what?” Baelor replied. “Lances? Prayers?”
The silence between them was not comfortable. It never had been.
Maekar was steel. Baelor, banked fire.
“She did not attack,” Baelor said at last. “That matters.”
“She did not need to,” Maekar retorted. “She showed power enough not to.”
Aerion approached then, eyes still bright.
“You both think too small.”
Baelor sighed faintly.
“Explain.”
Aerion smiled.
“If that was truth — and it was — then we did not see a threat. We saw inheritance.”
Maekar turned on him, irritation barely contained.
“Inheritance does not fly above our heads without leave.”
Baelor watched the horizon where the silhouette had vanished.
For a long moment, he said nothing. The wind stirred red and black cloaks, and the field murmured like a disturbed nest.
When he spoke, his voice no longer carried astonishment — it carried calculation.
“What was seen here today cannot be unsaid.”
Maekar frowned.
“We need not unsay it. We need to control it.”
Baelor inclined his head slightly.
“Exactly.”
He turned, regarding the stands where lords whispered with pale faces. Lesser houses exchanged alarmed glances; some with fear, others with something more dangerous — hope.
“If we allow this story to spread unchecked,” Baelor continued, “we shall have half a dozen versions before sunset. A queen returned from the dead. A prophetess. A Valyrian witch. Or worse… an omen.”
“An omen of what?” Maekar asked.
Baelor looked at him directly.
“Of the end.”
The word hung between them.
Aerion gave a brief laugh.
“The end? Or the beginning?”
Baelor ignored the provocation.
“Our father rules upon delicate stability. Dorne is still recent in our blood. The memory of the Blackfyre Rebellion has not faded. And now…” He lifted his gaze to the empty sky. “Now the people have seen a living dragon that does not belong to the king.”
Maekar understood at once.
“If there is a dragon not under the Throne’s command, then the Throne appears smaller.”
“Precisely.”
Aerion tilted his head.
“Or incomplete.”
Maekar shot him a hard look.
“Mind your words.”
But Aerion did not retreat.
“Say what you will. What the people saw was power. Unquestionable power. And she rides it as one born to do so.”
Baelor turned slowly to his youngest brother.
“And you believe that makes her legitimate?”
“I believe,” Aerion answered without hesitation, “that dragons legitimise.”
Maekar stepped forward, voice low and dangerous.
“They legitimise kings. Not phantoms from nowhere.”
“She bears our name,” Aerion insisted. “And if she speaks truth, she bears our future.”
Baelor raised a hand, silencing them.
“We shall not debate legitimacy here, before men who can scarcely hold their own banners against the wind.”
He gestured subtly towards the stands.
“Observe.”
Some lords were already mounting in haste. Messengers were being summoned. Banners lowered prematurely.
“Each of them will send letters tonight,” Baelor said. “To Harrenhal, to King’s Landing, to Dorne, to the Vale. And in those letters there will be fear. And ambition.”
Maekar nodded.
“We must shape the narrative before they do.”
Baelor drew a measured breath.
“We shall say that a creature was sighted. We shall confirm neither lineage nor identity. We shall say that the Crown investigates.”
“Investigates?” Aerion echoed, incredulous.
“Yes,” Baelor replied. “For while we investigate, none dare act alone.”
Maekar narrowed his eyes.
“And if some house decides to seek her out? To offer support? To shelter the woman in exchange for future favour?”
“Then we shall swiftly learn who feeds dreams of fire.”
The silence grew heavier.
Maekar inclined his head slightly.
“You intend to use her.”
Baelor did not smile.