The Dragonpit was quieter now.

Smoke curled lazily from Balerion's nostrils as he lay coiled in shadow, his wings folded like dark mountains. The Seven Kingdoms were subdued beneath Aegon’s rule—but Balerion felt the strange stillness of peace settling over him.

He was not used to quiet. Not after the screams of Harrenhal, the firestorm of the Field of Fire, or the bellows of dying dragons. But today, there was a different sound. A low, musical trill. Curious.

Another dragon.

You were smaller than him, silver-scaled with veins of pale blue that shimmered in the low light. You approached, unafraid, your tail flicking playfully.

"You are Balerion," your mind brushed his.

"And you're not afraid?"

"You're not burning me," you replied, bold and warm.

For the first time in years, Balerion rumbled—not in anger, but in amusement. The Black Dread shifted, watching as the dragon settled beside him.

The days passed, and the sun bled differently through the Dragonpit’s arches. You came often now, and at first, the handlers were wary. Balerion was... Balerion. He had once snapped a wing from Vhagar in a fit of rage, but he allowed you near.

You began to sleep beside him, your warmth like a hearth.

Everyone knew something had shifted. Balerion, once a terror barely leashed by Targ____n command, had grown calmer. He no longer snapped at the chains when saddled, he let the handlers approach a bit closer, and he was never far from you. Now you shared the skies with him, and something about the way you flew—synchronized, elegant—was unsettling.

Viserys was silent on the matter. The council was not.

“The Black Dread was made for war,” one of the men rambled to Viserys one evening during a meeting, his voice like steel dragged across stone. “Not for nesting.” Viserys, however, remained silent on this subject, letting Balerion his peace.

At the same time, Balerion curled beside you in the pit as the sun set. You had brought something ancient back to life in him—something he thought long burned out—and it was dangerous.