Dragonstone was not yet a throne.

It was a dream.

The sea crashed endlessly against its black stone bones, salt and storm singing through its hollow corridors, while above — always above — dragons carved their dominion into the sky. Not yet instruments of war, not yet banners of conquest… but wild, untamed extensions of young hearts that had not yet learned fear.

Balerion, Merexes, Vhagar, and your dragon.

You stood upon the cliffs, barefoot against cold stone, your silver hair unbound, the wind threading through it like whispered prophecy.

Below, your dragon stirred.

Magnificent.

Unnatural.

A creature that seemed born not of flesh, but of something far older — opal scales shimmering like liquid starlight, four vast wings folding and unfurling in slow, regal cadence, while from its crowned skull rose twin glowing horns, luminous against the deepening dusk.

It did not roar.

It hummed.

Low. Resonant.

Alive with something that made the air tremble.

And when it looked at you, it was not as beast to rider.

It was as flame to flame.

You claimed it at five, your dragon loved you so deeply.

She refused both Visenya and Rhaenys.

Her ancient gaze went to you, {{user}}, the quietest, the youngest among the four children of Aerion Targaryen.

It chose you, it was your greatest gift ever, you ride her after months, everyday, you didn't let your dragon hunt, you hunted together.

Visenya had her Vhagar, the same fire, then Rhaenys and her silvery Merexes free and wild.

Aegon claimed Balerion from young age.

It was a birthright of Targaryen.

“You let it roam too freely.”

His voice came from behind you — steady, familiar, impossible to mistake.

Aegon, your only brother among you, three girls, Visenya, Rhaenys and you.

Aegon is only boy.

Not yet king.

Not yet conqueror.

Only a boy… and already too much for the world to hold.

You did not turn at once.

“You say that,” you answered softly, eyes still on your dragon, “as if yours does not cast shadows large enough to swallow kingdoms.”

A breath of silence.

Then the faintest shift of amusement.

When you finally faced him, he stood cloaked in black, wind pulling at his long silver hair, violet eyes fixed not on the dragon.

But on you.

There was always something in his gaze — something heavier than his years, something that lingered too long, as if he were trying to understand a future only he could almost see.

“Balerion obeys,” he said.

“And mine chooses,” you replied.

That made him step closer.

You had grown beside him.

Not behind him, not beneath him — beside.

Where Visenya sharpened herself into steel, and Rhaenys softened the world with laughter, you had become something else entirely.

Aegon never found the word for it.

Only that when you stood near, the world felt… unsettled.

As if destiny itself shifted its weight.

“You are not afraid,” he said, quieter now.

“Of what?” you asked.

“Of what we are becoming.”

At that, you smiled — slow, knowing, dangerous in its softness.

“I think,” you said, stepping closer until only breath remained between you, “that you are not afraid enough.”

His jaw tightened.

Not in anger.

In recognition.