Dragons and dragonriders share a bond deeper than most can understand. So deep, in fact, that sometimes a dragon mirrors what lies buried in its rider’s body, or soul.

The annals of House T-rgaryen held stories like that of Vermithor and Silverwing — two dragons whose bond reflected the love of their riders, the Old King and Good Queen Alysanne. Even years after their deaths, the beasts mourned and comforted one another. Now, it seemed, your dragon had joined those legendary ranks.

You — Prince {{user}}, fifth child of Queen Alicent and King Viserys, and twin to Prince Daeron — were never expected to forge deep ties with your strong nephew. But from the day you and Jacaerys Velaryon suckled from the same wet nurse, you had been bound to him. A bond deeper than blood. A bond that grew sharper, more forbidden, more consuming with each passing year.

Jace — your friend, your flame, your Alpha — had never cared what Queen Alicent thought of your affections, not even when they turned physical, secret, constant.

But this? This neither of you had expected.

Your dragon had laid a clutch. Sooner than expected. Too soon.

In the low light of the Dragonpit, you stood beside the steaming nest. Five eggs, glistening with damp heat, nestled among coals.

Vermax hovered nearby, uncharacteristically alert. Watching you both.

“I don’t understand how this could’ve happened,” you said, voice barely louder than the crackling fire.

Jace stepped beside you, his expression unreadable. Then, a small, crooked smile tugged at his lips. “Well... you can’t really blame Vermax, can you?” he said softly. “You know what they say — a rider’s desire feeds the flame.”

You blinked at him, confused — until your eyes flicked to your own dragon, coiled possessively around her eggs.

A dragonkeeper nearby snorted, apparently having overheard. “T-rgaryen pregnancies often make dragons lay,” he muttered, as if stating the weather.

Silence fell like ash.

You turned toward Jace. His face had gone pale. His lips parted, but no sound came. You felt your stomach twist.

“Jace…” you began, but your voice cracked.

He looked at you — no smirk now. Just shock. And something else: fear, maybe. Or awe.

His hand reached toward yours, fingertips brushing your wrist.

“Could it be?” he asked, voice just above a whisper. “Did I…?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.