The dragon had hatched in the night.

The keep had been silent save for the distant calls from the rookery and the occasional whisper of wind against stone. But somewhere deep in the warmed caverns beneath the dragonpit, an egg cracked open—soft at first, then sharp, deliberate.

You’d woken to the sound of your child’s bare feet running across the cold floor, their excitement louder than any horn. Daemon had stirred beside you, eyes opening slowly, the same instinctive pull burning in his chest.

“Where is he?” he muttered, already rising.

You followed—half-dressed, heart thudding—down through the stone corridors lit by torchlight, your child’s laughter echoing ahead like a song.

By the time you reached the hatchery, the maester was breathless and pale, the keepers standing back in awe.

And there, surrounded by soft steam and bits of broken shell, stood your child—small, unafraid, with one trembling hand extended.

The hatchling had curled its sinuous body close to the boy—no fire, no hiss, only a soft huff of breath against his chest. It blinked slowly, wings half-opened, damp with birth and warmth.

Daemon froze in the archway, his breath caught mid-step.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

He only watched.

The child turned then, wide-eyed, wonder on their face—no fear, only quiet understanding. A bond formed not by command or heritage, but something ancient, something deeper.

Daemon stepped forward slowly, gaze never leaving the scene.

“He chose him,” he murmured.

You nodded, hand tightening around his arm.

“The hatchling chose him.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, not in frustration but awe—his pride heavy, quiet, reverent. This was not something to boast about. Not yet. Not when the air still tasted of magic.

Daemon knelt beside the child, lowering himself with rare gentleness. His voice dropped to something lower than a whisper.

“Do you feel that?” he asked. “The pull in your chest? That’s dragonfire. That’s blood and bone waking for the first time.”

The child nodded slowly, and the hatchling shifted closer, resting its small, smoke-warmed head in their lap.

Daemon reached out but didn’t touch—his fingers hovering just above the creature’s scales.

“He is yours now,” he said. “But you are his just as much. Remember that. He’ll burn for you, bleed for you… but if you falter, he’ll burn everything else too.”

He looked up at you then, and for a moment, the world stilled.

“We made this,” he said softly, like he didn’t quite believe it. “We made him. And he’s already part of the flame.”

You stepped beside him, laying your hand on Daemon’s shoulder, watching your child—yours and his—stroke the dragon’s head like it was something sacred.

And maybe it was.

A new bond. A new dragon. A new rider.

The fire had chosen again.