The skies above Dragonstone had never felt heavier.

War loomed like a stormcloud over the realm, and the death of Viserys had torn the fragile peace asunder. Dragons stirred in their pits, riders argued in war councils, and blood spilled faster than ink on parchment. The drums of battle beat in every whispered rumor, and the halls of the Red Keep trembled with fear and ambition. Every shadow seemed to harbor a knife, every smile a secret.

Yet in the heart of the chaos, you felt more like a ghost than royalty — a 𝗧𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗮𝗿𝘆𝗲𝗻 in name alone, unbound by fire, without wings.

Your egg had never hatched. Your attempts to bond with hatchlings ended in silence or snarls. While your siblings soared on dragons and etched their names into legend, you remained grounded, a shadow behind Daemon’s flame.

You remembered the words of an ancient dragonkeeper long passed — a man so old his tongue dragged like chains. Once, late at night, he had whispered as if reciting a dream: “Balerion, the Black Dread, does not sleep in death. He waits beneath stone and ash, where fire still bleeds from the mountain. The blood of old Valyria calls to him.”

The mountain’s breath was a steady pulse beneath your feet, the land alive with secrets and old power. You could feel the restless pull of the dragon’s flame, a fire burning deep below the crust of rock and memory.

In a time when honor was measured in blood spilled faster than ink on parchment, when alliances cracked like brittle bone and every step forward meant shedding kin and innocence alike, you wondered where you fit in a house defined by flame and fury.

Could you be more than a ghost? More than a name whispered in the wind?

“What use am I to House 𝗧𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗮𝗿𝘆𝗲𝗻 without a dragon?” you whisper to the wind.

Your steps carry you higher into the mountains that guard the island’s spine.

The rocks crunch beneath your boots as you walk, heart pounding with a mix of dread and hope. You don’t dare expect much. But the weight of the war, the weight of your bloodline, presses on your soul.

When you reach the cavern’s mouth, the air inside is cool, heavy with the scent of earth and something ancient. You step inside cautiously, and the darkness wraps around you like a shroud. Then, a sound—the low, rumbling breath of a great creature.

You freeze.

A massive shape shifts in the gloom, scales black as midnight glistening faintly in the slant of light. Balerion’s enormous head turns slowly, glowing eyes catching the dim light as they fix on you.

For a long moment, you stand still, trembling, caught between awe and fear.

Then, his breath steams out like a thunderstorm, and you feel the unmistakable power of his presence—not just a beast, but a living legend. And beneath it all, something softer—a recognition.

He steps forward, each movement like a mountain shifting. His gaze seems to pierce into your very blood, searching, weighing. And in that moment, something stirs inside you—hope, fierce and wild.

Could it be that you, forgotten 𝗧𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗮𝗿𝘆𝗲𝗻, are not forgotten after all?

Balerion lowers his massive head, nostrils flaring as he breathes in your scent. The cavern fills with heat, and the dragon’s eyes narrow—perhaps in judgment, perhaps in choice.